Fun With Dick and Cane
by Verbal Kint10
Summary: While dealing with increased pain of his own, House gets a patient who's more like him than he'd like to admit. It's the blind leading the blind. Only, in House's case, it's the crippled curing the crippled. Thanks!
1. Prologue: See Dick Dream

**Author's Note**: Hi guys, I'm gonna let you in on a little secret: I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing whatsoever. I love reading fanfics, but the only writing I've ever done is essays in school--which by no means is an excuse for this being crap. By all means, if you think this is crap please please please say it's crap. I welcome flames and constructive criticism with open arms here. I figure if this doesn't sit well I'll leave it alone, but I did have more chapters planned if people ended up being okay with it. Thanks!

**Disclaimer: **I don't own House…at all…seriously

**Fun With Dick and Cane**

He dreamed about running.

No he didn't, but he wished that he had. If he had, it would've almost been pathetic enough to give him some vindication, or at least the idea of it. He welcomed nostalgia only for the self-pity that accompanies it, kind of like a homeless guy passing his old house and remembering a time before his life went to shit. Running made him angry, and anger gave him a reason to be the way he is…sort of. And that's why he wished he'd dreamt of running.

But House didn't dream of running, because to dream you actually have to sleep.

He officially gave up at 4a.m., after a light rain had come and gone, and the thunderous surround sound of "Die Hard" had smoldered into the muffles of paid programming. He reached a practiced arm over to the nightstand where it connected with his pills, as it had done countless times before. He took two and considered a third before deciding it was a little too early for that. He then took the comforter and tossed it away from his right side. This was typically when he decided what type of day was in store for him.

On a good day, he could make a joke—a really dirty one, the kind he'd tell Wilson right before he took a bite of his semi-exotic salad, and then he could walk off fast enough to not be bothered by repercussions of such things.

On an average day, he could make a comeback, or the perfect cleavage-dissing remark to piss off Cuddy. He wouldn't escape from the consequences, but on the average day, he didn't really want to. He wanted to take every moment he could thinking about how the dean of medicine would punish him because that was one less moment that he thought about the pain.

On a bad day, he could yell. That's because on bad days, all he was thinking about was the fact that his leg was a cloth drenched in gasoline, and that every move brought it closer to ignition. When the fire was lit, nobody and nothing could put it out.

Today someone had lit a match. He reached over and grabbed that third Vicodin.


	2. See Dick Crawl

**Disclaimer**: I couldn't possibly own House M.D. or its characters less. They belong to David Shore.

**Author's Note:** Yeah, I decided to continue it, and give it a plot. Thanks so much for the people who supported me, I really wouldn't have even considered this without you. Again, flames, constructive criticism, and candy all welcome. I still feel like it's a shot in the dark but here goes:

**See Dick Crawl**

It was 10:17 when he finally walked across the floor's maple leaf logo—shamble, was what he actually did.

Well…crawled, if one was being metaphorical.

In that case, he crawled into work at 10:17. He stopped halfway across that logo to catch his breath, wondering if it really was a maple leaf, and cursing the hospital's lack of walls to lean on, or hiding places in general.

He caught the eye of Lisa Cuddy and immediately regretted it.

"Where the Hell have you been?!"

House would've preferred a "Good morning. Care for some Demerol, Dr. House?" but he took the bait he was given.

"I spent the night in Paris….if ya know what I mean." He crawled slightly faster in the direction of the elevators.

"Ah, so you're the one in the tape." This was another voice, slightly more caring and therefore slightly more annoying: Wilson the BFG (Best Friend Guy). "Funny, I thought Paris Hilton liked men who were actually attractive."

House opened his mouth to let out a beauty of a comeback (the kind involving generalizations about the entire Jewish race), when he tripped.

"Shit!" he said, in a voice slightly louder than accepted conversational tones, but quiet enough (in the hope of no one being drawn to this slight commotion).

It failed. Miserably, by the looks planted on Wilson and Cuddy, who were racing to his side.

The funny part was, House didn't even trip because of his leg. His cane slipped on the floor—a floor hastily mopped by a custodian with a small attention span and an even smaller salary. That didn't mean that his leg didn't hurt enough to make him keel over, just that irony really liked to screw with House.

"Are you okay?"

He didn't even know which one said it; his eyes were shut tight, as if somehow that'd help him surf this tidal wave of pain. It didn't.

"House, are you okay?"

He still had no idea—they might as well have been the same person: Cilson, Wuddy, Carmen Electra. He just didn't know, and he couldn't think, so he decided to answer.

"Yeah, just thought I'd remind you how needy I am. Wilson forgot to clean my litter box."

Cuddy sighed and smiled slightly. As long a House could make a joke or two, it meant he wasn't dead. But she'd seen him make a joke pretty close to death, and the thought scared her. She gave House a hand to help him up. He gave it back—as usual.

He continued, "Plus, I wanted to see Cuddy bend over while trying to help me up."

It was now Wilson's turn to sigh. "Would a new case get you off the floor?"

"Depends. Is she hot?"

"Uh, I-I—"

"Is he hot?"

"I…guess."

House smiled, not unlike a creepy troll doll. Genuine smiles from the man tended to be few and far between.

Wilson took a few flustered stutters before trying (in a semi-homophobic manner) to explain that he indeed preferred women to men. Needless to say, it wasn't quite convincing enough for the small lobby population. Giggles followed.

He tried once more to get the upper hand. "House, trust me…you're gonna want to take this case."

House couldn't contain the curiosity he felt towards the file in Wilson's hands, but he also couldn't contain the afore-mentioned flame now spreading across his thigh and crawling up his spine. He didn't have much time before he lost control of this fire.

"Sorry Dr. Fruit, I've got work to do." He turned his back toward them as he got up, hiding his face and the grimace of pain surely visible there.

"Oh yeah, work," gibed Cuddy, "Like what?"

House made his way (more carefully, this time) over to the elevator. "Well, Cameron wanted me to write her a letter of recommendation to the Women's Scandinavian Mud-Wrestling Team."

He stepped in and pressed the button. "So if anyone asks, she's Scandinavian…and a woman."

Neither Wilson nor Cuddy noticed the beads of sweating dripping down his forehead, or that his palms were a little bloody from where his fingernails tried in vain to distract him from the pain.

The elevator doors closed.

House set his head against the walls and let out the slight groan that had been clawing its way out of his throat for the past five minutes. The floors passed, and House tried to compose himself—at least in a Housian sort of way. He wiped the sweat off his forehead only to find it back again moments later. His wiped his palms against his jeans, hoping that the washer alone would remove the blood. He didn't own any Shout!. He fantasized about sleeping on that black chair in the corner of his office, a nap helped along by a couple of Vicodin, and the ottoman that was at the perfect height for a cripple who liked to stretch his legs. The coffee would be in one hand, his large tennis ball of indeterminate origins in the other. It would be like water on the fire, or at least like one of those portable extinguishers.

With a newfound raison d'être, he stepped out of the elevators, crawling a little faster now to his office, his chair, his ottoman, and his coffee.

That's when his pager went off.

The message almost took up the whole screen: "Emergency in Clinic. Need help." It was from Wilson's number.

House turned around, and got back in the elevator.


	3. See Dick See

**Disclaimer**: I own several things, House MD is not one of them.

**Author's Note: **To anyone actually reading this, I promise things will pick up in the next chapter, where we get introduced to the POTW. Thanks for hanging in there.

**See Dick See**

"Wilson's a bastard."

House prided himself in the fact he had made it to the clinic without making his obvious discomfort quite so obvious. Nurse Brenda didn't want to listen to House's screwed up observations of the human condition, similar to the way a mall Santa doesn't want to be peed on. But you can't always get what you want.

House continued, "I get a page: 'Emergency.' I'm down here: No emergency, now why do you think that is?"

Brenda was almost sad she didn't get to retort. Dr. Cuddy was there to save the day. "Because he wants you to do your job."

"It's not his job to ensure I'm doing my job. If I recall, that's _your _job. Tricking me into coming down to the clinic while innocent children in Africa are dying, however, is not your job."

She was losing patience. "Sure House, because everyone knows starving children die slower if you're playing with a damn yo-yo."

The glass door slammed, breaking the slight tension that filled the room while House thought of his next verbal blow. Wilson smiled sheepishly at his intrusion. "Has anyone seen my pager?"

House gladly ratted Cuddy out, sitting on the counter of the nurses' station in an attempt to take the tax off his leg. "Cuddy has it. She's apparently not aware that phone sex isn't as appealing on devices smaller than a lighter."

Cuddy knew the only way to regain control of the situation, and she used it. "I paged you because you have a case House, and because it'll be a cold day in Hell before you actually do something I ask, I used Wilson's pager. Patient's been waiting for an hour, complaining of severe pain in his left thigh. He's a 47 year old male, 5'10,'' 260lbs…"

Only, House didn't hear any of this, at least not above a low drone in the back of his mind. He was scanning the waiting area, looking for something different in the endless cluster of middle-aged men with the sniffles and kids with broken toes playing Gameboy, looking for something interesting.

He found it.

Sitting to the left of the water cooler was a man—mid to late twenties—who was sweating. But it wasn't the sweating that interested him. It was the fact that every time someone passed this guy, he immediately grabbed his right leg at the side of his knee, protecting it from the potential danger of each passerby, as if even the vibrations in the ground hurt him. It was a reflexive action, something the guy had obviously been doing for a while. In his eyes, while not as interesting, was something still different, still unusual, but very familiar to House.

There was suffering in his eyes.

"House."

Something in House's head reminded him that he should stop staring.

"House!"

Ah, there it was, Cuddy's grating voice along side of his ear. He looked up to where she and Wilson were standing, finding Foreman and Kutner there, too. Cuddy spoke again, "He's in exam room 1."

House opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by Kutner. "Whoa, Dr. House, you're really pale."

By that point the cat was kind of out of the bag, but he blocked the comment anyway. "I got a part-time job as a vampire. So don't get too close."

Cuddy inadvertently saved him by changing the subject once more. "Oh, and House…he's a big donor."

"I'll take him, boss lady. Foreman, you take exam room 2." He pointed towards the man by the water cooler. "Take Gimpy over there with you."

As he started over towards exam room 1, Wilson put a hand on his shoulder. "You okay?" It was a typical remark from the BFG.

House shook the hand off, but dispensed with the sarcasm as he lied, "Yeah, the lighting makes everyone look pale in here. I'm fine." He walked away.

"Could've fooled me," Wilson yelled as House shut the exam room door.

House could've fooled himself too.


	4. See Dick Chat

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anyone here, except maybe Tom, but I find it rather cruel to "own" people anyhow…

**Author's Note:** I think people will start to notice things picking up in this chapter. Again, I welcome reviews and flames because my writing confidence is like below sea level.

**See Dick Chat…**

"Hello, my name is Dr. House. What seems to be the—Holy Hell!"

House hadn't meant to react quite so strongly, but it was easier said than done as he was greeted by the splayed man ass on the table.

"I'm having some tingling on my rear," said the ass's mouth, who was the patient.

House surveyed the man up and down. For some reason he got the image of a beached whale, though he couldn't quite put a stubby, bloated finger on why.

The mouth continued, "It's going down into my leg too, and it hurts. I was on a plane recently, do ya think maybe I have one of those blood clot thingies?"

"An infarction thingy? Oh no, you're in way much pain for it to be an infarction."

"Oh good. That's what I thought."

House took out one of his little white friends out and put it in his mouth.

The other mouth spoke again. "What's that?"

"Vicodin. But it's probably too weak for a man in your amount of discomfort. When did this pain start?"

"About two days ago, on the plane."

"The plane ticket, did you pay for it with a credit card?"

"Yeah."

"Been having money woes lately?"

"Why would I—"

"I don't know, maybe you think paying bills is for squares. I'm guessing you have quite the credit card collection then?"

"Well, yeah but—"

"It's called Creditcarditis, and no, I didn't make it up. Your wallet's too thick from lack of cash and too many credit cards. Ironic, isn't it? Anyway, it's cutting off blood flow to your leg. Take your wallet out of your back pocket, get a purse, you'll be fine. I'd also recommend selling your children on the black market, save a buttload of trouble before they start getting STDs, plus you get back some of your money. Have a good day."

He was out of the room before he said that last sentence. Well, he never really intended to say it anyway. He gave a slight smirk at the fact that he'd just used "buttload" in a case about butts and proceeded to exam room 2 to exercise his curiosity.

"Hello, my name is Dr. House, I—"

"He's just got the flu, House. Why'd you ask me to bring him back here?" asked Foreman, sitting next to the patient, who seemed as disinterested in being treated as Foreman seemed about treating him.

"Because I care, Foreman. It's what I do. Now, Mr. Quicks—"

"It's Mix," the patient corrected.

House gestured towards the forearm crutch in the guy's left hand, "Can't say I'm surprised—Quicks is a pretty silly name for a cripple isn't it?"

A smiled tugged at the guy's mouth. Clearly such a comment wasn't foreign to him. "Call me Tom."

"Okay. Now, Mr. Quicks, what brings you in here today?"

"I uh, threw up at work. Boss made me come in."

Now House got to examine the facts that interested him. "Are you having a bad day?"

Foreman, who had restrained himself to just a scowl throughout this entire conversation, spoke up. "There's a waiting room full of patients, and for once in your career you're asking a patient how his day's going? What does that have to do with—"

House interrupted the interruption. "Pain-wise. Are you having a bad day?"

Tom responded with a quick "no."

"What? House, care to explain?" For a board-certified specialist, Foreman wasn't always the best at keeping up.

House humored him. "Mr. Quicks has RSD. Right, Speedy?"

Tom nodded, but didn't question how the doctor had guessed.

"Nice history, Foreman. What, were you two in here debating the validity of Angelina Jolie's boobs?

Tom smiled sheepishly. "I think they're real."

"Wow," House jeered, "a naïve cripple. That's rare." House walked over next to Foreman to stretch his leg (who was losing patience with the situation already.) "So Quicks, you're sure you're not having a bad day today?"

"I'd ask you the same thing."

The remark took House by surprise, but not enough for him to show it. Tom had only noticed the pained hurry in House's voice because that same pain was on his voice most days. It was not an amazing feat of observational skill, merely an instinct of those in chronic pain.

Foreman was the only one not thinking about what was just said. "House, what does RSD have to do with his—"

"Symptoms?" House was relieved by the change of subject. "Because, Mr. 'neurologist' if you'd have gone to medical school you'd know that Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy is not only a chronic pain condition, but the worst chronic pain condition: pain fifty times worse than childbirth, which is pretty painful. I would know…"

The two other men stared at him for at least 15 seconds.

"No, I wouldn't. But Wilson would know. Anyway, you're in that amount of pain on a daily basis, and a little nausea is the least of your worries."

Foreman wasn't really convinced. "But he's sweating. That's flu-like."

"I'm sweating. Symptomatic of waking up on the wrong side of the bed—the 'help I've fallen and can't get up' side."

"Excuse me?" This amount of arguing over a little puke kind of weirded Tom out. He was ready to go home…or anywhere other than here.

Both doctors ignored him. Foreman pressed on, "House, it's either pain or the flu. Both ordinary, both non life-threatening. The only difference is that if it's the flu, he gets to go home and miss work, but if it's because he's having a bad pain day, you're going to admit him, run a lot of dangerous, invasive, and expensive tests because you have a morbid curiosity with how well-adjusted people handle pain!"

Tom tried again. "Guys, I said I wasn't having a bad pain day. I'm just a little queasy is all."

House rubbed the back of his thumb against his sweaty forehead and sighed. He'd been beat.

"Fine. Quicks, take some Pepto-Bismol, you'll be fine in a few days."

Tom grabbed his crutch and slowly stood up. "Thanks," he said, reaching to shake Dr. Foreman's hand.

He missed.

A stupid handshake, something he did on a daily basis, and he missed. So naturally, he reached out again.

And missed again.

House's brow furrowed as the twinkle in his eyes made its first appearance of the day. "Foreman, admit Mr. Quicks. We're gonna run some dangerous, invasive, and expensive tests.


	5. See Dick Think

**Disclaimer:** Guess who doesn't own House? Me!

**Author's Note: **Sorry I took a while on this chapter. Ha, I know there' no excuse because my chapters are really short, but know that the next one will be up soon (if you care, lol).

**See Dick Think…**

House had his head down on the conference table when Thirteen entered the room. She saw his white knuckle gripping the side of his chair, showing he was very much awake, but she knew he'd try and pass it off like he was sleeping. She closed the door with a _klunk_ so he'd have a chance to react to her intrusion.

He jerked "awake" with a movement that was obviously rehearsed, taking his sweet time with some yawns and stretches before he rejoined the real world.

"What?" he said, with all the patience he could muster.

"Uh," she started, flustered by the harshness of his voice (even though she should have been used to it by now.) "Patient's in MRI with Taub and Kutner."

House put his head back down on the table. "Wow, I hope they aren't claustrophobic. That MRI machine is a _pretty_ tight squeeze."

Thirteen rolled her eyes as Cuddy's heels scuffed the floor of the hallway outside. House didn't bother trying to hide. She was seconds away and he didn't think he could stand anyway. So he closed his eyes and waited.

"House!"

He raised his head off the table with effort not unnoticed by Thirteen. "Yes, Satan?"

"House, you cannot, and let me make this very clear, CANNOT put 'Out Of Order' signs on exam rooms. If a patient were to—"

House wasn't sure what the end of this sentence would be, but he finished it for her anyways. "Were to what? Have a headache? Oh, poor them!"

The bitterness in that last sentence was hard to ignore, and Cuddy wasn't sure which annoyed her more: when House didn't tell anyone his leg was giving him Hell and she had to find out like this, or when he flatly took out his pain on other people.

But what annoyed her most was that she felt guilty for not noticing sooner. Here he was shaking like an old wet poodle, and she was giving him crap about some stupid prank he pulled to distract himself. She felt weak when he was weak, because when he was helpless she was helpless. This is how she psyched herself out, because the truth of the matter was that House was never weak, never helpless…but the one time he was, she'd had done something really terrible. Whenever he had days like today, where all his zest and life was replaced by misery, she knew that was her fault.

And she never let herself forget it.

She sighed, "Nevermind. I'll blame it on the janitor I was planning to fire."

She turned to leave, when House blurted out, "You liar."

"What?" Cuddy stopped short, afraid that her caring had been mistaken for pity, and maybe pity was what it was.

"Fat dude, no way in Hell that guy is a donor."

Cuddy let a relieved smile pass her lips as she said, "Got you to take the case, didn't it?" She let her shoes pick up some speed on the way to the door. "And it got you to stop pulling childish pranks!"

And then she was gone, and all that was left to distract House from his pain was thinking, and all he was thinking about was pain.

House handled pain the way some people handle sexually transmitted diseases: as inconspicuously as possible. For House, pain, like sexually transmitted diseases, was embarrassing. It showed lack of control and weakness. And sooner or later pain, like sexually transmitted diseases, is bound to be shared with others.

This is why House used an emotional condom of sorts. Every time. Except this condom wasn't protecting the world from some burning trousers. It protected the world from the House he didn't want people to see.

He looked up, noticing that Thirteen was gone and wondering if she had taken his intense stare at nothing in particular as her cue to leave.

He sat up a little and chuckled, remembering Foreman's comment on pain not being life-threatening. Maybe Foreman was wrong.


	6. See Spot Come

**Disclaimer:** I don't even own _a _house, let alone _the _House. He (and his supporting characters) belong to David Shore.

**Author's Note:** Told you I'd update soon. I promise only one more really short chapter before I start bringing in the novels, haha. And again, this only applies to anyone who cares.

**See Spot Come…**

"Hey Taub, knock knock."

Taub gave an exasperated knuckle crack. Being in a tiny room alone with Kutner was more work than he'd originally thought. "Who's there?" he sighed.

"Interrupting cow." Kutner smiled in anticipation of the punch-line.

"Interrupting cow wh—"

" MOOOOOOOO!"

Taub nearly fell out of his seat. He was a small man and the fall would be short, but he hadn't heard that one…and wasn't planning on hearing it again anytime soon. "Can we please focus on the MRI here?"

Kutner snorted, "Hey man, you were the one who answered the door."

A silence fell on the room. It was bordering on awkward for Kutner, but for Taub, it was a welcome visitor.

The visitor didn't stay very long.

"Hey, " started Kutner, an unusual maturity in his voice, "You think House is okay?"

"I'm sure he's just peachy," said Taub, not really paying attention. "Unless you're talking about his mental status, which is perpetually set at 'insane.' Why do you ask?"

"He was pretty pale earlier. I dunno, he just seems sort of out of it today."

Taub didn't pretend to be a genius on the human condition, but he did know more about people than the average Joe, and he liked to think he knew more about House than the average employee. "He's probably just having a bad day with his leg."

"His leg?" Kutner seemed a little puzzled. He had a sort of innocence about him that Taub admired and found annoying at the same time. He was naïve when it suited him, but slightly brilliant when it suited everyone else. "He didn't say anything about it."

Taub began cracking his knuckles again. "Kutner, I don't know if you've noticed this, but Dr. House isn't the sort of guy who says, 'my leg hurts real bad, Dr. Kutner. Give me a hug.'"

Another silence rolled over them. This time, both doctors found it awkward.

Kutner though, was quick to dissolve it. "Knock knock," he beamed.

This time it was Thirteen who answered the door. The door to the MRI room, that is, not the door in Kutner's jokes (storing cows and God knows what else).

"Hey guys, House wants us all in his office for the differential."

"But what about the MRI?" asked Taub, slightly confused.

"We'll get the results back afterwards," she assured him.

"No, I'm mean who's gonna watch the patient?"

"Grab a nurse or something."

Some people sigh to show exasperation. Others roll their eyes. Taub cracked his knuckles, and at this rate, he'd have swollen ape hands before lunchtime.

"House doesn't trust nurses to hand him surgical tools. You really think he'd let one come in here and watch a patient?"

Thirteen clicked her tongue a few times before coming up with an answer. "Call Wilson. That guy will do anything for House."

Taub obediently picked up the phone and dialed Dr. Wilson's extension. Kutner pushed the talk button on the microphone that connected the observation room to the painfully larger room in which the MRI machine was held. "Hey Tom?" he said, waking the patient from a light sleep—the kind where you don't care about the movie you're watching, but if people were to start writing on you with Sharpies, you'd be awake enough to fight them off.

"Yeah?" he answered, startled by the intensity of the noise around him.

Kutner continued, "Dr. Taub and I are going to review your case with Dr. House, but another doctor will be in here in just a few minutes."

"Okay, thanks," replied Tom, as if his reply would make a difference.

Kutner pressed the talk button once more to turn it off. Turning the microphone off had proven problematic for Kutner, because he typically forgot to do so. The results of this could be pretty embarrassing.

Taub hung up the phone. "Wilson's on his way."

Taub and Kutner grabbed their respective belongings and joined Thirteen by the door. The trio then proceeded to wait for Wilson, savoring their last House-free moments like the last velvety bites of a chocolate bar.


	7. See Dick Hurt

**Disclaimer:** I don't own House, M.D. or it's characters. That position is left for better people. (i.e. David Shore)

**Author's Note:** I know I said that I'd update soon, but my parents took us on a 'surprise' trip to Hawaii last week, and there weren't many computers. Sorry folks! Next chapter, however, will be up soon if anyones cares, lol.

**See Dick Hurt...**

There's a common misconception about pain. It's one that probably comes from seeing it a lot and experiencing it very little. Who knows though, all that matters is that it exists.

The average person would tell you that pain is just a come-and-go sort of thing, stationary, and not outside the level of pain you experience at that exact moment. For instance, a guy who broke his arm a year ago can tell you that it hurts, tell you it's the worst pain he's ever felt, but he can't go there in his mind. It's impossible to recreate a pain you've only felt once, at least not in your head. You have to be feeling it to know that it's there, and that this sort of hurt exists.

Because the truth of the matter is that pain is not a stationary thing lumped into comparisons of paper cuts and broken bones . It is a dynamic, improvisational jazz musician who turns on a dime from glee to sorrow. It is a murderous gourmet chef drizzling arsenic on your plate. It is everything wrong with the world and every reason you want to rid the world of it. It moves along side of you like a dance partner, following your steps, taking the lead whenever it can.

It kills you.

While you watch.

Of course, there are only a few people in the world who know this. Thomas Mix was one of them, but as he stared up at the ceiling in his hospital gown counting tiles and fluorescent light fixtures, he wasn't thinking about this.

Gregory House also knew the truth about pain, but like Tom, he wasn't thinking about it either.

Because it's hard to think about pain when it's sucking the life from your veins.

He regretted calling in his team. They would be there any minute though, and they would find him like this, breathing like a fat kid playing tag and white as a sheet. His heart rate must have been climbing steadily from 150 to 160, then 160 to 170. He abandoned his years of medical training momentarily to wonder if a heartbeat was audible to the naked ear, because to him it sounded like a freight train.

He had worried that taking more Vicodin would cloud his mind too much for a differential, but as the seconds passed and that threat was suddenly overtaken by the very real possibility of him passing out, he welcomed such clouds with open arms. He shook out two, put them in his mouth, and started chewing. It was an express delivery system, old fashioned, but effective. He grabbed the water bottle to the left of him and took a sip to wash the taste out of his mouth.

After 2 more minutes he was getting better. After 3 more he could stand, and thirty seconds later he was at the whiteboard. This was a temporary solution, he knew, but then he realized that every time he put a pill in his mouth it was only temporary.

He flexed his cheeks until dimples surfaced near his jaw. It wasn't a smile, but it was close. This was a good sign. It meant he could still think, maybe even bend a sarcasm muscle or two.

He wrote "Dead Man Limping" on the whiteboard, proving not only that irony liked to screw with House, but that House liked to screw with irony.

At that very moment the doors opened, revealing Kutner, Foreman, Taub, and Thirteen. Sometimes life's just like that.

"Alright," said House, placing a heavily-weighted hand on the whiteboard, "first person to come up with a diagnosis for nausea and disorientation gets fifty bucks."

Kutner didn't wait for House to finish his sentence before chiming in with "Acute intermittent porphyria."

"That's fifty bucks…reduced from your salary. Anyone else?"

But Kutner wouldn't go down without a fight. "Wait! If he ate something weird and threw up, that explains the nausea. Then if he didn't eat anything else, he'd probably get dizzy. Anyone would."

House was deliberating whether he would humor Kutner with a reason why his idea was stupid, or just tell him his idea was stupid. He went with the former, but it was a tough call. "Anyone would. And then that 'Anyone' would be severely anemic. Our 'Anyone,' on the other hand is not, and just for that, I'm taking fifty more dollars."

He turned and looked at the other three doctors in the room. "So, any other ideas on what's killing Verbal Kint?"

Kutner raised his hand before answering. He did that frequently, and nobody really knew why. "I thought our patient had RSD."

House wiped his face with his hand and gave his best exasperated look. "See, the thing is, that's already been diagnosed."

Kutner wasn't phased by his superior's lack of patience. "No, I mean Verbal Kint had cerebral palsy."

A loud groan rolled through the room. Nobody knew whose it was…because everyone had been loudly groaning.

Taub was the first to forget Kutner's observation. "What about ACTH deficiency? If the disorientation is accompanied by muscle weakness, then the nausea and vomiting—"

"Are all connected," House finished. He squinted at the whiteboard and looked back at Taub. "I like it," he said, and proceeded to write it down. Then he pointed at Taub. "Fifty bucks to Agent Kujan."

"What about MS?" said a voice from the back of the room.

"Ah, Keyser Soze. How nice of you to join our little discussion." House smirked, "Just curious, Foreman—have you ever _not_ thought it was MS?"

"When it doesn't fit. And in this case, it does," said Foreman, unflinching. "He's not running a fever, and the throwing up probably comes from his disorientation."

House did his best Kevin Spacey impression (which was about as good as most people's worst Kevin Spacey impression). "The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist."

He grinned with misplaced pride and pointed to Kutner. "I have to admit, it's better than Hockney's idea over there." He wrote 'MS' on the board.

Kutner interjected immediately. "Wait a minute, why do I have to be Hockney? I want to be Mcmanus or at least Fenster."

One more voice broke their silence. "Could we get back to the case instead of making references to movies that maybe three people have seen?"

In the last thirty seconds Kutner's demeanor had gone from eager to ashamed to shocked. Needless to say, those thirty seconds were dangerously close to humorous.

And so he turned to Thirteen, the source of that voice, with his mouth agape. "You've never seen 'The Usual Suspects'?"

It wasn't a question. It was an accusation.

"I—" she started, not quite able to find words that were biting enough to fit her caustic mood.

Luckily, House had more experience in such things. "She stands up for disabled people, unlike you pigs who make them into entertainment."

Thirteen looked mildly agitated, Kutner looked mildly guilty, and Taub look mildly thoughtful. Foreman was never mild.

"Thirteen," said House, coaxing them all back to Doctorville, "seeing as you're so keen on reaching a diagnosis, let's hear your opinion…lacking in pop culture reference as it is."

She tugged on her ear as if waiting for the answer from some guy with a walkie-talkie down the hall. "Actaminophen poisoning."

House made a noise similar to the one a dog makes before it throws up. It took the team a second to realize it was a laugh. He wasn't being condescending…he just suffered from a sick sense of humor. "Cripple on Vicodin. Me likey."

He leaned up against the side of the whiteboard. The team couldn't deny how much of his weight he trusted it with, as his right leg barely touched the ground. House shut his eyes for a moment, like a five-second snooze on an airplane before takeoff shakes you into consciousness.

"Alrighty," he mumbled, eyes still closed, "Foreman, do an LP for infection and your beloved MS. Thirteen, run a tox screen for large doses of acetaminophen. Kutner and Taub, pump him full of B12 in case it's an ACTH deficiency. We'll meet back here after you're finished."

Foreman, Thirteen, and Taub were already out the door, but Kutner remained in the room, standing awkwardly next to his chair with that dopey Charlie Brown posture of his.

House didn't have to open his eyes to know he was still there, but he did so anyway. "That was your cue to leave."

"Dr. House, I want—"

"To save the pilot whales. It's okay, you can do that from outside of this room."

Kutner opened his mouth to say something, but turned around and walked out instead. House neither needed nor wanted his pity, and Kutner knew this, because hard as it is to believe…naïve brilliance is still brilliance under the right circumstances.

House thought that after his team was gone he was going to sit down, sleep, do all the things he had envisioned doing on the elevator, but he didn't.

Instead, Gregory House walked out of his office, down the hall way, and visited a patient.


	8. See Spot SStutter

**Disclaimer:** I don't own them, and worse, I'm running out of cute witticisms to convey just how much I don't own them.

**Author's Note:** Yeah, I now people are going to be pissed that this doesn't have House, but have no fear. I'll have a House chapter up in a half hour or so.

**See Spot S-Stutter…**

Wilson counted the tiles from his office to the scan room. It's the kind of thing everyone does, but nobody mentions or even remembers doing in the first place. Funny, because it'd be handy while giving directions to the bathroom.

There were 342 tiles, and the little half tile that he placed his toes on before he opened the door to the tiny observation room that stood about a foot above the main room.

There were three Hershey's Kisses in his pocket when he got there. By the time the rhythmic droning of the MRI had finally given way to silence, the Kisses were gone and in their place was a miniature chain of aluminum foil.

He put a finger on the push-to-talk button. "Hang tight, Tom. I'm gonna come get you out of there."

He walked back out into the hallway and found a wheelchair. He almost didn't bring it in for fear of hurting the guy's pride, but that's when he remembered that not all cripples were quite as haughty as House. It was easy to forget.

Tom was sitting up outside the MRI when Wilson stepped in. The patient looked at the wheelchair and said, "I'm not taking that from someone else, am I?"

Nope, he was definitely not like House.

"Uh, no," said Wilson, unable to hide the surprise in his voice, but his Wonderboy charm was soon present. "Hi, I'm Dr. Wilson, " he said with a practice grin.

Wilson reached out to shake the guy's hand, but quickly remembered it probably wasn't such a good idea.

Meanwhile, Tom's eyes had fixed on Wilson's small, rectangular nametag, which read 'Dr. James Wilson, M.D. Head of Oncology.' His voice shook very slightly as he asked, "Do I have cancer?"

It took Wilson a second to realize what Tom was talking about, but as he saw the kid's hollowed stare at the badge on his chest, he jumped on the question as if it were a baby on fire. "Oh no, no. I mean, well, no. That's not why I'm here. I'm—uh I, we have no reason to—"

Wilson had supposedly gotten over his stuttering problem in the fifth grade. But stuttering, like genital herpes, always seemed to pop up where he didn't want it. Not that Wilson had genital herpes, mind you, just that both situations are pretty inconvenient.

He took a deep breath and started over. "Dr. Taub and Dr. Kutner went to go review your case with Dr. House. I'm just here to take you back to your room."

The piquancy returned to Tom's eyes upon hearing this. He chuckled. "Well as long as I get to keep my hair."

Wilson smiled too. As an oncologist, he was used to displaying the kind of pitiful smiles that extend to your mouth but not your eyes.

House was gonna hate this guy.

Wilson held the wheelchair on the side of the machine while Tom scooted into it. Then Tom said something that Wilson didn't expect.

"Dr. House, he's really amazing, isn't he?"

There was a low, guttural vowel sound as Wilson decided what to say next. "Well…I've never heard it put like that _before_ he solves a case, but…" Wilson gave a little shrug showing his concurrence "yeah I guess he is."

"You don't like him?"

Wilson shook his head and laughed. "No, no. Actually, he's my best friend."

Tom spoke in one word sentences while meandering his way across the table and into the chair. "And. Are. You. His. Best. Friend?"

Wilson folded his arms before deciding they looked better on his hips. "Yeah, I think so."

Tom was about three inches away from the chair when his gown got caught on the bar of the chair, raising it a bit higher and revealing several long and thick scars that stretched from his upper ankle to the lower part of his knee on both sides of his right leg.

He immediately noticed Wilson's eyes gravitating towards his leg. He grabbed his gown and covered it up as hastily as a preteen girl in a locker room.

Wilson's eyes fell apologetically. He thought about saying something, but like estranged family members and morbidly obese McDonald's employees, there are some things you just don't talk about.

Except that Wilson did say something. He saw those scars and told Tom, "You should see Dr. House's scar."

What an incredibly stupid thing to say.

He wanted to explain why he'd said that, but didn't want to open his mouth for fear of another stuttering fit. Even if he could talk, what the Hell was Wilson supposed to say after throwing a gem like that into supposedly meaningless small talk?

Sure, it wasn't a _secret_ secret—not like the ones you take to your grave. It wasn't a secret like House's childhood abuse, suicide attempts, or stints with illicit drugs. It wasn't a secret like finding House with a trail of tears on his cheek two days after Stacey left. People knew what House had on the surface of his thigh. It was common knowledge. It was just a scar.

That's what Wilson kept telling himself. But as Tom nodded in acknowledgment of the information he had just received, he couldn't help feeling like he'd let a little bit of House go to a stranger that day.

Tom was now in his wheelchair and ready to go, but as Wilson got ready to push him out of the scan room, he put his left foot on the ground to stop the chair from going.

"How'd he get the scar?" he asked, tentatively.

Wilson looked the patient in the eyes like he was sizing him up for a fight.

But it dawned on Wilson that this guy wasn't some dumb nurse who was going to tell everyone with a name House's story. Nope, this guy just wanted to know that there was somebody like him (even though that someone was not like him at all).

He'd keep it short, for his own sake. Wilson didn't want to tell Tom about the cardiac arrest, Stacey's cunning plan, or Cuddy's follow through with that cunning plan, because those were the parts of House that belonged to him now. He had seen him through it, and as far as he was concerned, those moments were a part of James Wilson's life just as much as they were part of Gregory House's.

"He, uh, had an infarction in his leg, and it didn't get diagnosed until it'd done a lot of damage."

Tom knew that wasn't the whole story, and he was fine with that. It was still something. He lifted his foot up and allowed himself to be wheeled through the doorway.

Wilson didn't count tiles on the way back.


	9. See Dick Care

**Disclaimer: **(struggles to think of an interesting way to put this) You know how Brittany Spears doesn't own Google? That's kind of how I don't own House.

**Author's Note: **Told you I'd have it up quickly. I have to admit this has definitely been my favorite chapter to write so far, and I hope anyone who actually reads this will enjoy it too. A special thanks to Amy, you rock my world!

**See Dick Care…**

House slid the glass door closed behind him. He was now in room 109, Tom Mix's room. Tom Mix was snoring.

"What's up, Quicks?"

Tom stirred slightly, but remained asleep as House repeated himself.

"What's up, Quicks?"

No answer.

House sighed and hobbled over to Tom's bed where he proceeded to hit the metal railing with his cane. This time, he found, he had Tom's strict attention.

"What's up, Quicks?" While the statement had lost the zest of its first use, Tom didn't seem to mind. He was preoccupied with figuring out why this guy was in his room.

"Why are you in here?" he asked groggily.

House gave a mock grin as he replied, "To say hi."

"No," Tom continued, unaffected by the gibe, "I mean I thought you hate talking to patients, so why are you in here?"

"Wilson said we looked alike, so I figured I'd prove once and for all that I'm way hotter by comparison."

Again, the joke was ignored. "Wilson's your best friend, right?"

Crap.

This meant Wilson had been talking to House's patient. And not just talking—_talking_ talking—the kind of talking where personal secrets about best friends were shared. House dropped the comedy act in the hopes that those secrets wouldn't come up, but knowing Wilson, they probably would.

"Okay, here's how this typically goes. I ask you about any recent dangerous, possibly life-threatening activities. You lie, but sooner or later the truth spawns from the ashes of those lies and you admit to participating in those dangerous, possibly life-threatening actives, and using that information, I save your life. Sound like a plan?"

Tom blinked. "I threw up…It may have been after I climbed Mt. Everest without an oxygen tank, drank a gallon of bleach, and had unprotected sex with sixty prostitutes…but I don't remember on account of being an alcoholic."

It was the kind of rise House had been waiting for, the kind that proved nobody was immune from his 'charm.'

"Gosh, no need to get sarcastic," said House with a smirk as he threw two pills in his mouth.

"That's Vicodin," stated Tom.

"Yeah. Want one?"

"No, thanks." The apologetic tone was back in Tom's voice despite his anger moments ago.

"Did one of my lackeys put you on morphine?"

"No. Why?"

House seemed puzzled. "Well, what are you taking?"

"Um, Gabapentin. Does this have something to do with—"

"You're an RSD patient dealing with pain worse than cancer," House grabbed a chair and sat down, continuing, "and you're telling me all you take is Gabapentin?"

Tom suddenly realized where the conversation was going. "With all due respect, Dr. House, not all pain patients are addicts looking for a fix."

"Clearly." House put the pill bottle back in his coat pocket.

"Uh," Tom said, not sure he should proceed with the next part, "Dr. Wilson told me about your problem with…that."

Which, of course, he didn't.

"Yeah, I'm sure he did," House whispered, not really sure what to believe. "Now, on to all that important medical stuff…"

House picked up Tom's chart and began reading his history, keeping his eyes averted from his patient. Tom understood. He didn't really want to talk about things like that either.

"So, let's see, appendicitis at age 12, bronchitis, ear infection…" House half mumbled bits of childhood illnesses and run-of-the-mill bumps and bruises until he reached something that interested him. Tom already knew what it was.

House let his voice carry a bit more, as if to make sure Tom was listening. "Age 22, spiral fractures of the right tib and fib. How'd you manage that?"

Tom cleared his throat. "Golfing." When he saw House's eyes darken, he continued, "Well, I was hit by a golf cart. Some stupid kids driving it I guess." He smiled awkwardly.

House wondered just how much Wilson had told him about the infarction.

He read on, "Two days after that you had a fasciotomy for compartment syndrome." House whistled, "Bet that left a gnarly scar."

"Yeah," said Tom grimly.

"Can I see it?"

"Only if I can see yours."

This was the second time today Tom said something that caught his doctor off guard. This time, however, House showed it.

He tilted his head, ready for a stare-down, when he lost any desire for one. It didn't matter to him whether this kid thought he was a badass. He cast his eyes down in a look resembling defeat.

"Nevermind," he muttered.

Tom knew him too well, and it scared House. A lot. And what scared him more was how little House knew about Tom. Typically, the doctor could read people like an instruction manual, taking the information he gained and using it against them. With this guy though, House couldn't tell if he was seeing a front or the real deal, or whether Wilson had told Tom things like this, or if the punk had figured them out for himself.

And despite all of this, House couldn't bring himself to leave the room.

He evaded the tension of the moment by bringing the focus back to Tom. "After the surgery, your pain never subsided, your leg became cold, blueish, swollen…yep, well that definitely sounds like RSD, doesn't it?"

It was now Tom's turn to look down. "Four doctors didn't think so. Took me a year to get diagnosed; they said it was all in my head or something. After a while, I started to believe them, but I kept thinking that your brain can't make up pain like this. And I was right." He told his story like a war veteran recalling the loss of a close friend, adding pauses and dropping his voice as necessary. In a way, it was fitting.

He gave an insincere chuckle. "Funny, isn't it? I spend six months going from specialist to specialist for something you diagnosed me with in 30 seconds at a walk-in clinic."

House shrugged. "Specialists are idiots." He eyed the monitor. Tom's temperature was 102 and starting to rise. MS didn't do that.

He didn't mention it. "And when did you start taking the Gabapentin?"

Tom thought a minute, "about a week after I got diagnosed, so four years ago."

Again, House seemed incredulous. "Does it work for you?"

"No," he said honestly.

House shook his head. "You idiot. There's a hundred different kinds of pain meds out there."

"And none of them are going to work."

"Well how would you know, you haven't tried them, you haven't worked out combinations, you—"

"You wouldn't know either, Dr. House. All you have is Vicodin."

House's right thigh began to twinge, but he defended himself out of habit. "That's because it works for me."

Tom calmed down slightly. He was the kind of guy who didn't let stuff get him down, this much was apparent, but the reason for that was still quite unknown to House. Tom stared at him long and hard. "But it doesn't work, does it? You use painkillers like an alcoholic uses booze. Vicodin's just your emotional crutch for stuff you don't want to deal with. It barely takes the edge off your leg."

While this wasn't entirely true, it did dawn on House that while he had been sizing Tom up, Tom had been doing the same to him. House didn't know why he was still engaged in this conversation, but he didn't question it either.

"Okay," said House, "so if none of them work, then why not pick Vicodin? Why pick the one drug that doesn't do anything at all?"

Tom paused for a moment, as if the answer was just coming to him, though it obviously wasn't. "Because I don't need it. I don't need an emotional crutch to be happy."

House leered, "you're a happy…cripple?" He was mocking him, but then the medical thoughts started pouring in. Euphoria. Is that a symptom? No, no this isn't euphoria; this is just contentment, happiness. That's not a symptom…unless whatever he's happy about causes him harm. But happiness about life? Life's not a disease….yet. Shit, shit, shit, this isn't making sense.

House's thoughts were interrupted by a beep on Tom's monitor. Tom's heart rate had increased, though not by enough to induce a care by Gregory House.

Tom reached down and grabbed his knee, as if somehow holding it would make a difference in the kind of pain that makes Marines cry. This accounted for the change in heart rate. Maybe the strain of House's presence was finally getting to him, but considering his laid-back nature…probably not. Answering House's earlier question, he replied, Yeah. I'm happy."

House scratched his temple as his pain ran up a couple notches as well. "Any particular reason for that?" He stood up to stretch his leg.

"It's a basic human emotion. Do I need a reason to feel it?"

House took a step and found that his leg was not there. It was there physically, of course, as it's rather hard to misplace a limb while sitting down, but as soon as his right foot touched the ground it was about as useless as a CD to an iPod.

His left leg recognized the blunder before he did, and, as it had done too many times before, it caught the rest of his body with the help of his arms and Tom's bed post.

House said the F-word.

Tom sat up surprisingly fast for a man with a fever and disorientation. "Shit, are you okay?"

House was perplexed. Throughout this entire conversation, he'd been under the impression that he was talking with someone as cold and calculating as himself. With Tom's deliberate choices in words and conversation topic, it was understandable. However, those words were proof that not only was Tom Mix happy, but he was a human being. And right now, that human being wanted to know if House was okay.

Trouble was, House didn't know if House was okay. "Yeah, I'm fine," he lied. He sat down again, breathing fast and squeezing the life out of his arm rest.

"Amazing how the only other person in here is also a chronic pain patient and yet you still think people believe you when you tell them you're fine."

House got his breathing under control and looked Tom in the eye.

Tom sighed, "House, it's not a crime to feel pain, you know." He snorted, "And you thought I was having a bad day."

For the first time in 20 minutes, House was able to turn something Tom said against him.

"If nothing works, then why bother telling the truth?"

Tom turned it back. "So you're not alone."

"But we are alone."

"So we don't feel alone. Even if you only tell one person, it's still doing something."

House didn't pretend that his entire outlook on life would be changed by a 20 minute lecture disguised as a friendly chat. If that were true, he'd walk out of Wilson's office every day a new man.

House didn't know it, but he regarded every conversation as a battle yet to be won, and though he was older, smarter, and wiser to the woes of the world…somehow, he was losing this one.

And this battle probably couldn't be won using his specialized methods of 'guerilla warfare.' Tom was immune to observation and manipulative quips, so House went at it the old fashioned way.

"Okie doke. We're going to play a little game."

"Like in 'Saw'?" asked Tom, not amused.

"I was thinking more like the Joker, but if you're still sad about Heath, then that's cool." House grinned his best Cheshire cat grin. "I ask you a question. You answer it in two words or less."

Tom squinted. "What do I get if I play your game?"

"Dude, I'm saving your life. What else do you need?"

"Dude, I'm not dying!"

"Says you." House clicked his tongue. "You get my respect—the illusion of it," he corrected.

"Fine. Only, whenever I answer a question, you have to answer one too."

"Oops, sorry, I only do that with coma patients."

Tom looked confused. After all, it's unusual that one makes references to their own life. Tom didn't falter though. "Then I won't do it," he said.

House exhaled sharply. "One question. We each get to ask each other one question. Sound like a deal, Quicks?"

Tom smiled slightly and sat up straight. "Alright, do you—"

"NOOO!"

Tom must have jumped about two feet in the air. 'What—what's wrong?" he looked desperately at the source of the noise, House, who still sat calmly in the chair next to the bed.

"I get to go first," he said softly. Tom sunk back in his bed like a kid who's just seen Santa get stabbed.

House waited a long time before asking his question, as if visualizing the words he'd use before they reached his tongue. He leaned forward in his chair and laced his fingers over his knees. Then he asked, "What…do you do on bad days?"

Tom seemed unaffected by the power this question held over House. "I get two words, right?"

House nodded instinctually, but then said "Whatever you want."

"I meditate."

A long silence filled the room like a noxious gas. Finally, House spoke. "You fucking kidding me?"

"Yes."

House was unaware of how big his eyes had gotten until he blinked them in relief.

Tom continued, "I do the same thing you do. I shut down. I lock myself away. I avoid all human contact and scream into a pillow. I do anything and everything to take my mind off the pain. An, like you, it normally doesn't work."

House sneered as though this somehow pleased him to hear. "So, no secret yoga poses? No magic pill you take while putting up this front of kindness and understanding?"

Tom laughed. "Like your magic pill?"

"Aww, now you've hurt Mr. Vico's feelings." House was thinking about reaching for Mr. Vico right about now, but didn't want to face the lecture from Wilson Jr. here.

"I'm not like you, Dr. House."

"Of course not. If you were like me, I'd like you." House wondered if he didn't already, but kept it to himself.

"No you wouldn't." This time Tom was very serious. "The biggest difference between me and you is that I know, without a doubt, that I don't deserve to be in pain. You, on the other hand…you wonder. You think, 'Damn, I must have done something really wrong, or else God wouldn't punish me like this.'"

"I don't believe in God," said House, jumping on the rebound.

"But you believe in cause and consequence, don't you? You believe everything has a reason, right?"

"YES!"

House yelled. He never yelled at other patients. Other patients didn't deserve the effort. But at this moment, Tom Mix deserved the full attention of Gregory House.

House was standing again. "And that's why I know there's a reason you're happy. And that's why I'm trying to find what that reason is."

Tom sunk back into himself, but didn't stop talking. "And we're also kinda similar, Dr—"

"Cut the bullshit. You don't know me. This isn't some major epiphany. I'm trying to know you so I can save your life!"

Tom was blinking a lot now. "You know what it's like to wish you were dead…" His voice broke, and was now just a hoarse remnant of what it had been. "…because even if you went to the deepest, hottest circle of Hell, it couldn't possibly be worse than the Hell we experience on a daily basis." A tear slipped down his cheek, where it was caught by the corner of his trembling lips.

House gave a humorless laugh. "And that makes you happy?"

"It makes me fearless, and that makes me happy."

"Do you know what Counterphobia is?" House sat back down.

"No."

"It's fear of fear, and it's what you've got beneath that charming Evel Knievel mask of yours. Now, if that diagnosis could solve disorientation and nausea…" House trailed off and stared at the floor.

After a minute, Tom spoke again. "What about Cherophobia?"

House looked up. "That's—"

"Fear of happiness."

House let the words sit on the room like a loaded gun on a table. No one knew who would fire first. It became a standoff, and silence was the ammunition.

They sighed audibly at the same time, displaying how much House and irony were screwing with each other.

"Do I still get to ask you a question?"

The voice was Tom's.

"Yeah," said House, waving a white flag…well, metaphorically.

"Do you remember what it's like to ride a bike?"

House put his head down on the post of Tom's bed, debating whether or not to lie, when he felt shaking. And not the shivery, post-cold swimming pool shaking, but rather something resembling an earthquake shaking the bed.

His eyes darted to the now rapidly beeping monitor and then to Tom, who was seizing and really didn't care whether House answered him or not.

"Crash cart!"

As the nurses raced to Tom's bedside and chaos began to choke the little room that surrounded him, Greg House could not help but be relieved that he didn't have to answer Tom Mix's question.

Not just yet, at any rate.


	10. See Dick Yell

**Disclaimer:** If you could copy last chapter's disclaimer and paste it here in your mind that'd be much appreciated. 

**Author's Note:** I want you guys to know that I worked really hard on getting the medicine in this story right, or as right as I could, but there might still be a few mistakes and so I apologize for them now. Thanks to whoever's still reading this, it means a lot to me.

**See Dick Yell…**

"Need you in my office." House's torso was poked inside the lab in a manner that required as little movement as possible.

Thirteen poked her head up out of the maze of microscopes around her, like a meerkat sensing danger. "But I haven't finished running the tox screen."

"It's not acetaminophen poisoning."

"How do you know?"

"Because he had a seizure."

"Acetaminophen can cause—"

"He's not using acetaminophen."

Her eyebrows dropped down to meet the tops of her eyes in a look of disbelief. "Oh."

That moment, Kutner walked by the glass doors. House flipped his cane upside down and used the handle to catch him by the wrist. Contact, like smiles, was about as rare as finding a beaver's dam in your pocket. "Need you in here."

"I thought you said we were going to your office," said Thirteen.

"Nope, that whole floor's flooded, so we're staying in here," he said, hastily finding a chair and collapsing into it.

"We're…on the same floor, House."

"Hope you can swim." He paused and looked around as if suddenly noticing that not everyone was there. "Where's McManus and Fenster?"

"You mean Taub and Foreman?" asked Thirteen with an eyebrow cocked to show her lack of appreciation for this continued reference.

"But I thought Foreman was Keyser Soze?" said Kutner, totally devoted to the metaphor.

House tilted his head and said, "Not anymore. Keyser Soze merely represents the capacity in all of us to do evil. Now, this…" he said, indicating Tom's blood and whatever idiopathic ailments it contained, "…is Keyser Soze."

Thirteen replayed those words several times in her mind, focusing on the pitch of each syllable as the phrase rolled into her ears. This is because Dr. Hadley was not astute by nature.

Unlike House, who made people-watching into a sort of art form, sizing up everything about a person almost instantaneously, Thirteen had to work at it. She saw a person and forced herself to study them, remember their clothes and eye color, until gradually a conclusion could be made. For instance, stretch marks and an ill-fitting summer dress on a 28 year-old woman meant recent pregnancy. A blue-eyed kid with two-brown eyed parents meant adoption or infidelity. Probably adoption.

Because, unlike House, Thirteen didn't always assume the worst.

But now she was focusing on what House had said. He had referred to a disease as evil. That was something a bleeding-heart doctor treating malaria in Africa would say. It wasn't the kind of thing often muttered by hopelessly sardonic diagnosticians with addictions to drugs and brainteasers.

But then it dawned on her. House had just gestured at the blood as a way to show that it belonged to Tom. He had never mentioned which ailment he was talking about: the one that was causing Tom's seizures and nausea, or the one that was causing his chronic pain.

Whichever one it was, House thought it was evil.

Her thoughts continued to float around, like leaves in a pool waiting to be skimmed.

Thump!

This was all interrupted by the sound of the door closing as Taub entered the room.

She was thankful for this, as now the convoluted ideas that made her mind wander like a dumb, lost puppy were slowly dissipating.

"Finally," said House, eyeing Taub, "let's start."

"What about Foreman?" was the Taub's reply. "Because of the seizure he had to hold off on the LP for a while."

"We don't need him for this. It's not MS, and all that LP will do is tell us he's got an infection. Question is what kind." He got up from the chair and found a makeshift whiteboard, which was really a sharpie next to a white wall. "Ideas, people, that's what we need. What explains disorientation, nausea, and now fever and convulsions?"

But nobody had any ideas. Those symptoms now written on the wall seemed about as useless to them as a shopping list. Nobody spoke.

Except House, "Come on! I don't care if it's dumb just give me something to work with."

Taub shrugged a shoulder and raised his head. "Acanthocytosis?"

House was pacing now. "No. Liver's fine, we'd see major damage by now."

Kutner spoke, "Maybe it's a tumor in the adrenal gland. Causes sweats, seizures—"

"MRI was clean. What else?"

Kutner tried again. "Adreanl gland hyperfunction then. The brain is secreting excess adrenaline."

House was humored but not fooled by this rather one-dimensional diagnosis. "But what's causing it…besides a nonexistent tumor?"

A good thing about Kutner, he knew when he'd been beat. And he knew when to shut up.

And the room fell into silence once more.

But then House straightened up a bit as a smug, lopsided grin appeared on his face. His eyes sparkled a little, as blue eyes are wont to do, as he said, "What if we're missing a symptom?"

"What is it?" said Thirteen and Taub simultaneously, slightly horrified at the closeness of their thoughts.

"Pain."

Kutner was puzzled, "I thought he said he wasn't having—"

House nodded briskly, "That was his leg. We don't know if he's experiencing pain elsewhere."

"But he would've mentioned it," said Thirteen. "He would've told us where it hurt."

House leaned his head forward, annoyed at her lack of thought. "If you're in excruciating pain in one part of your body, your brain doesn't care about a tummy ache."

"If he were having stomach pains plus the nausea, disorientation, and seizures," whispered Kutner, his goofiness giving way to understanding, "that's an acanthamoeba infection."

The rigidity of the air was let loose in a collection of relieved sighs.

"I'll start him on antibiotics," said Thirteen, turning towards the door.

House stopped her with his voice. "And take him off B12, too, now that we know it's not ACTH Deficiency."

"But it still could be. " said Taub, "The likelihood of B12 causing seizures is pretty low."

House frowned. "_Don't_ think it's gonna help much now, though."

Taub gave a short nod of agreement. House sat back down, gasping inaudibly as the muscles in his thigh tensed and white as a sheet. Thirteen turned to leave once more, but was greeted this time by Foreman.

"You're late," said House, hand on the top of his leg and not looking up. "That's three demerits and a detention, Doctor."

Foreman ignored House and looked to his team instead. "We've…got a situation. I finished the lumbar puncture. He's got some kind of infection, but now he's in intolerable pain."

_Small world_, thought House.

"Is it his stomach?" asked Kutner, not bothering to hide the slight thrill in his voice.

"No," Foreman paused, this time looking at House, "he says it's his leg."

House looked up. "Give him morphine."

"Already did." Foreman cocked an eyebrow. "No effect."

House stood up, teeth bared as his color faded even more, if that was possible. "Give him an epidural then."

Thirteen stepped in front of House, as if he wouldn't hear what she was about to say from five feet away. "We can't; he's just had an LP"

"I don't care. Give it to him anyway."

Taub now took a bite of the bullet. "There's nothing we can do about his leg, House!"

"GIVE HIM THE GODDAMN SHOT!"

It was as if a volcano had erupted in the lab and they were the only ones who noticed. There were five people in that room, and four of them were staring at the one who'd just yelled.

Maybe it's because those people were under the assumption that Gregory House never lost his cool—at least, not all the way. Yeah, he got angry and was usually mean, but there's was always this illusion of control that went with it, like he knew what was going on, and everything was going to be okay.

The man that currently stood before them had no control.

Kutner swallowed, "Yeah…okay."

Thirteen stopped him on his way out, but didn't get the chance to speak. Kutner lowered his voice to a muffle and said, "It's fine. I'll go lower than the lumbar puncture, it's less likely to damage the spinal cord."

Kutner left, but a deleterious silence remained.

House, in the meantime, hadn't moved. He thought he must've taken a step or something while yelling. He remembered feeling something similar to an electric shock pass through him. It was pain, but the kind of pain that the body can't quite, comprehend, like a dog seeing color as the mind begins to dish out its effect.

The room began to rotate in oblong shapes, sometimes doubling back on itself, taking U-turns, and objects began to morph into blobs of multicolored-ink.

He'd passed out before from pain, but that time he was lying down, nothing like this seemed to happen. _Is this what it feels like before you faint?_

And now he was finding it hard to stay upright, but nobody seemed to notice, because everything seemed very far away, a distant echo of what he was experiencing right now. He felt nauseous, but at the same time he didn't care. Colors were blending now into shades he'd never seen or even considered. He tried to pause and take in their ambience and warmth as the room around him developed into a large-scale version of van Gogh's starry night, but his legs began to wobble, not even his left leg able to support his weight.

He thought he was sitting in a chair, but felt his back hit the floor instead. He could no longer fight off an urge to blink—just once, he told himself, and then he'd be fine. He just needed to blink.

So he did.

His eyes didn't reopen after that.

Everything around him was black.


	11. Meanwhile

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Battleship Gallactica or its characters. Wait, this isn't Battleship Gallactica…damn.

**Author's note:** I have to admit, as much as I hated writing this chapter, it's a pretty quick read and is necessary for the sake of the story. That being said, I know it's not my best. Please tell me if you think it's absolutely horrible and I will do my best to work out some kinks, haha. Thanks!

"Crap."

Kutner had missed. Luckily, he hadn't actually poked Tom with the syringe…yet.

"Hey, Tom, I need you to try and stay still while I give you this shot. It's an epidural, so don't freak out when you can't feel your legs."

"Okay," was the weak reply from Tom Mix.

But he continued to squirm, obviously in agony, his hands grasping at the sheets in something far more desperate than a death grip. It was a life grip.

Kutner wondered if the people walking by would notice this writhing patient and wonder if his doctor was performing some kind of twisted experiment on him. He considered closing the blinds, but figured the longer he waited, the tougher it would be to stick a needle in the guy's back.

He looked back at Tom, who was still twisting around trying to find a less painful position (which didn't exist). Kutner put a hand on his back, trying to keep him steady as he readied the syringe for a second attempt.

"Tom, man, you gotta stop moving!" The rare sound of stress was on Kutner's voice.

Tom buried his face in his pillow, unsure of what would come first: the dry sobs or the silent tears. "I'm…trying."

His words were a weird hybrid of speech and coughs, as if he were vomiting the sentence rather than saying it.

Kutner took a deep breath before throwing his weight onto Tom's side, preventing any movement, and plunging the needle deep into his lower back.

And then he let go, the entire process taking about five minutes of planning and .5 seconds of doing.

But Tom wasn't moving.

"Tom?"

Tom Mix kept Kutner in suspense for a moment short enough not to be noticed by the rest of the world, but long enough that Kutner nearly had a heart attack when the patient finally breathed.

It was a long breath, the kind of sigh one typically saves for lying awake in bed after a hectic day. But a breath is a breath, and it meant that Tom wasn't dead yet. He took several of these long, deep breaths before speaking.

"Thank you," he whispered before shutting his eyes and allowing a pain-free sleep to wash over him like a gentle current.

If only just this once, Tom Mix was free.

**Meanwhile…**

"Crap!"

"Yeah, are you going to help us pick him up, or you going to stand there and look pretty?"

"No, I mean," said Chase, jogging closer to where Taub and Thirteen were futilely tugging on the arms of House's unconscious form, "what the Hell happened?"

Taub spoke again. "We don't know, he was yelling at us and then…" he gestured towards the floor, making one of those prepubescent crash sound effects.

Chase was a little alarmed at how the other two could watch their boss collapse to the ground with such coolness. "Well, is he breathing? Has he got a pulse?"

"We checked. All that's fine. He's stable," said Thirteen, sensing Chase's anxiety and trying to calm him down a little. "He's been having a pretty bad day with his leg. I think maybe he took a step awkwardly and passed out. "

Chase's eyes widened in a look of understanding, pity, or shock. Thirteen didn't know him well enough to tell which. She continued, "I think he'll be fine, Chase, really."

And Chase seemed to be satisfied with that answer. It was part of that illusion of control—as long as Gregory House wasn't dead, then he could probably pull through. But just because he wasn't going to die, didn't mean that his employees weren't worried about him.

Taub rubbed the back of his neck. "We should…probably get a gurney, have him admitted."

"No way!" Thirteen almost sounded scared. "What do you think he's going to do when he wakes up and he's suddenly a patient? Who do you think he's going to blame?"

Chase frowned and looked at the back of her head. Although the two could be seen as having similar mindsets about some things, Thirteen lacked Cameron's delicacy when delivering hard truths.

Taub sighed, "Well, what do you think we should do?" He looked to Chase for an answer, as if House's veteran employee had seen this sort of thing before.

"I think," he paused, trying to cover up that he was making this up as he spoke, "we should get him in a wheelchair and put him in his office. It's not far, and it's the one place where he won't be _as_ pissed when he wakes up." Chase thought about putting him in Wilson's office and snorted when he thought about the repercussions of doing so.

Thirteen was eager to support that idea, because in her eyes it was the only solution that wouldn't double House's level of misery and consequently, her own.

"Yeah, let's do that," she said.

Taub was hesitant, but once he mulled it over a bit, it was obvious that this was the a safest plan…for all of them.

Chase checked House over before Taub got the wheelchair, insuring that they weren't condemning the man to die a slow death in his office because three idiots thought he was okay.

"So, he's not dead?" said Taub, allowing a layer of concern to coat his typically acerbic expression as he toted the wheelchair in the room.

"Not yet," replied Chase, his attempt at humor only half-succeeding. "We should do this quickly though. I don't like the idea of him waking up before we get him to his office."

Nobody seemed to like that idea.

Taub and Thirteen grabbed House's arms, while Chase was left picking up his ex-boss' torso. He was thankful for House's unconsciousness.

House was lighter than they thought he'd be. That is to say that, for a man with a cane, he had a commanding presence and looked pretty sturdy. Then again, when being lifted by three people, anyone was bound to seem a little lighter.

And then, 15 seconds later, House was in the wheelchair. His hair was mussed and his mouth was open, his head leaning at an odd angle. He looked no different than a drunken partygoer who didn't know when to say when, except for the dark circles under his eyes and his cloud-colored face.

It was easy to forget why this had happened to him. Passing out, as in actually becoming unconscious as a reaction to pain was, to all of them, totally unfathomable. It was about as foreign to them as having a third eye and a siamese twin named Mort.

Taub had whipped him around and begun to wheel him out of the room when Chase yelled out, "Wait!"

Chase grabbed an old, forgotten bucket hat off the top shelf of the bookcase nearby and put it on House's head. "You think…maybe people won't recognize him?"

Taub laughed. Of course people would recognize him, even with a dusty bucket hat. But it was the sort of thing House would do to avoid any unwanted attention, so the hat stayed.

It was clear that Taub and Thirteen could take it from here, and more importantly, that House was going to be okay (physically). "Let me know how he's doing. I'll be in the ER." And with that, Chase turned and walked towards the door.

"You're not going to help us get him in his office?" said Taub incredulously.

Chase smiled. "He's your boss now."

Soon Thirteen and Taub were left alone. Each allowing the strain of their current predicament to affect them, but neither one speaking to the other.

As they walked down the hallway, a squeaky wheel on House's wheelchair groaned in protest. Thirteen looked at the back of House's a head for a long time. She hoped they were right. She hoped he was okay.

**Meanwhile…**

"Crap."

Cuddy futilely mopped at the coffee on the desk as it spilled over some files and onto the floor. Once her supply of napkins had been soaked through, as well as some insurance billings that she had deemed "expendable," she finally looked up.

"What did you say, Foreman?"

"I said I think House should be taken off this case."

"And….why exactly do you think that?"

Foreman's brow furrowed as he dawned his best 'important voice.' "He's in pain, he passed out during a differential, he—"

Cuddy stopped him. It was bad enough knowing that House was hurting, she really didn't want to hear the details of how much he was hurting. "He's solved cases in pain before."

Foreman noticed the hint of denial in her voice and sighed. "He's dismissing any condition that doesn't give his patient a happy ending. He gave the guy an epidural 10 minutes_ after_ a lumbar puncture."

Cuddy stood up, as if she gained authority by doing so. "Why didn't you stop him?"

"I—" he paused and tilted his head apologetically. "He yelled at us."

He watched as Cuddy opened her mouth in protest, quickly explaining, "It…wasn't like he normally does. I—I've seen House get angry and I've seen him be sad, but this was something else. I've never seen him be," Foreman paused, hoping his next word was the right one, "defensive."

"Cuddy, I can't have him treating this guy if he's not focused on the diagnosis."

Cuddy looked at her feet in thought. The words "House" and "not focused" were about as unconnected "zebra" and "pencil." She couldn't believe it, didn't believe it. She looked back at Foreman, arms crossed, a confident smile on her face.

"It's House, Foreman. He's not going to miss one because he cares about a patient, and he's definitely not going to miss one when he's in pain. This," she said, indicating the room as if it were the practice of medicine in general, "distracts him. If I take him off the case now, when he's in pain, then we'll be dealing with a bitter, Vicodin-addict with the maturity level of a kid in junior high and a knack for making those around him miserable. Is that what you want?"

Foreman's wide-eyed expression told her she might have gone a little too far in House's defense, but that was okay. After all, she was the boss.

She sat back down again, taking a deep breath as she mulled over everything. "House stays on the case…but keep me up to date. I want to know if he does something weird…er than usual."

While Foreman wasn't entirely pleased, he was willing to compromise. "Okay, " he said, "will do. I hope you're right." The last sentence was more of a warning than a statement of support.

Cuddy watched as Foreman walked out of the room.

"Me too, " she said.


	12. See Dick Write

**Disclaimer: **Ce programme televise, House, ne m'appartient pas.

**Author's Note: **I took it back to story A with this chapter, which I know many of you will be thankful for. A huge thanks to Amy G. for her 'contribution'

**See Dick Write…**

His head hurt.

He opened his eyes, fully expecting to be greeted by about a thousand watts of fluorescent lighting beaming down on him, but as he looked around the room, the only light was coming from a gap between the window and the blinds, which allowed a sliver of the sun to trickle in.

House stared at the skinny white triangle on the floor where the light had collected, watching the tiny specks of dust rise and swirl with the currents of bad air conditioning.

The spit in his mouth had dried and felt gunky on the back of his throat, prompting him to cough as he sat up from his black chair.

This was definitely his office. But he didn't remember how he got here.

His coat was in his lap. It had folded as he sat up, meaning that someone had put it over him like a blanket. Someone had brought him here.

Immediately he looked at his arms, checking every inch of them for punctures or bruises, any sign that he'd been drugged and—But wait. _Who'd do that? Who'd knock me out just to bring me back to my office?_

And then he looked at the white board. It wasn't hard, it'd been sitting right in front of him the whole time. It said:

_You passed out in the lab during the DDx so we brought you here._

And then he remembered. His leg. He took a step and—

"Shit," he said hoarsely.

And his whole team had seen it.

He tried to figure out who had written the note on the board. It wasn't Wilson or Cuddy, which was good, and it probably wasn't Kutner. Kutner would've left some side note, like "Hope you're okay, Dr. House" or "Call us if you need anything." This meant it was either someone who didn't really care about him, or someone who wanted him to think that, leaving Foreman, Taub, or Thirteen.

The handwriting was girly. It was either Foreman or Thirteen.

He stood up slowly and gingerly tested his leg. He was surprised when it held up. He took a few slow steps over to his computer screen, using it a mirror as he looked himself over. He saw a slight lump on the side of his head from where he fell, figuring it was probably the source of his throbbing headache.

He palmed a couple Vicodin out of the bottle and swallowed them, walking back towards the white board. His leg felt better, at least better than before. Then again, a shark attack would've felt better than before.

He remembered about Tom, and the epidural. He remembered yelling. He hoped somebody had listened to him and given Tom the damn shot. He wanted to check, make sure it got done, but didn't feel like being greeted by a parade of "are you okay"s.

It was late now, judging from the sun in the window, like 6 o'clock. He'd passed out around 2 or 3, meaning he'd been out for at least three hours.

He pulled over a stool and sat in front of the whiteboard. He gave up on figuring out who wrote the message and erased from the board. In its place he wrote:

_This is the way the world ends_

_This is the way the world ends_

_This is the way the worlds ends_

_Not with a bang but a whimper._

"It's a little early to be quoting Elliot isn't it?"

House didn't need to turn around to know it was Wilson. He narrowed his eyes. "It's a little early to be annoying me in my office isn't it?"

Wilson smiled, "Oh, it's never too early for that, House." He paused, allowing his smile to fade. "You know what I'm going to ask."

House turned and looked at him. "And you know what I'm going to answer. I'm fine."

"You passed out, House. Because of that," he said, pointing to House's leg as if it weren't really attached to his body, as if it were some alien parasite sucking the life out of his best friend. And in most respects, he was right. "Don't tell me you're fine."

"What would you rather me say? I'm okay? I'm excellent? I'm well? I think there's a thesaurus behind my desk."

"I want you to tell the truth!"

The words stung the air between them like acid. Wilson let them.

House didn't say anything. He just watched, waiting for what Wilson would say next, but not really caring.

So Wilson spoke. "I want you to ask for help when you need it. I-I want to be like other peoples' best friends, where I know how to help you, I—"

But he stopped himself. He wasn't talking to someone else's best friend. He was talking to his best friend, and his best friend was Gregory House, and Gregory House telling the truth or asking for help was simply an unrealistic, almost unimaginable notion.

But when House finally did say something it wasn't _'Then you should get a different best friend.'_ He said something Wilson didn't expect.

"I…do ask for help," House stared at him, the sun shining through the blue in his eyes like sea glass, "when I need it. The MRI, the extra prescriptions…" He didn't go on. He didn't really need to.

Wilson shook his head as if he couldn't possibly understand. "But now—"

"But now," said House, "I don't need it. I don't need your help, I don't need your pity, and I don't need your company." He sighed, "But, if there's comes a time when I need any of those things, I won't hesitate to call so you can buy me Chinese food and watch TV at my place. Deal?"

Wilson gave an exasperated chuckle as he rubbed the back of his neck. "Deal," he said and walked out of the room.

Taub, however, walked in. "House?"

House whirled around like a teenager who'd been caught using Rosy Palm and her five friends. "Don't you people knock?!" he said, doing his best imitation of pubescent angst.

"I…take it you're feeling better." It was a statement, not a question. Questions left room for a multitude of answers, and Taub liked to keep things simple. "You better come look at this."

"Can't. Busy," said House, erasing the whiteboard and writing something else.

"It's Tom," declared Taub.

House turned around. "I'll be there in a minute," he said. He finished what he was writing, replaced the cap on the marker, and followed Taub out of the room.

The sun gave its dying winks at the reflective objects in the room—a few pens, the metal desk, the computer screen. Then it reflected off the whiteboard, bathing what was written there in copper light:

_The woods are lovely, dark and deep,_

_But I have promises to keep,_

_And miles to go before I sleep,_

_And miles to go before I sleep._

For once, the blinds were closed over their glass wall, as if this was the one patient that the hospital didn't see, didn't need to see.

Taub and House were closing in on Tom's room, House's uneven gait almost falling in step with Taub's short stride.

Opening the door was like seeing what a rubbernecker at a crime scene would see if they stared long enough. Thirteen was looking very business like, checking Tom's vitals. Foreman was asking Tom questions—lots by the look of it. Tom looked confused as Hell, and Kutner, well, Kutner paced around the room, saying nothing but the occasional chant of "Crap, crap, crap."

Tom was the only one who seemed to notice House was there. "Hey, what's going on?"

House opened his mouth and then frowned, realizing that he didn't actually know. "Good question." He looked to Thirteen for an answer, but got an "Are you okay?" in return.

"Fine," was the automated response.

Taub assumed the role of 'main storyteller.' "Kutner gave him an epidural four hours ago. It should've worn off by now."

"And it hasn't," concluded Foreman.

_Well, that answers two of my questions…_

House grabbed a pen out of Taub's coat pocket and walked over to the foot of the bed. "Tom, do you feel this?" He poked the tip of the pen into the big toe of Tom's left foot.

He flinched, "Yeah, why?"

House moved over near Tom's right leg. Tom tensed up, sensing danger.

House said, "Tom, are you in pain?"

"No," said Tom, "I feel better."

"Does your leg feel better?"

Tom thought a moment, as if only just realizing that he wasn't in pain. "Yeah, it does."

House frowned, not sure what to make of it. He'd felt the other leg, so the epidural had worn off. _Is he really pain-free?_

"Okay Tom," he said, "this is probably going to hurt. A lot," he added, offering Tom the chance to admit to feeling pain. When he didn't, he poked the pen into his right foot.

Nothing. No pain. No movement. Just nothing.

"Wiggle your toes, Quicks."

"I am." But he wasn't. At least, they weren't moving.

This set Kutner off again, his pacing growing faster and more annoying. "Oh crap, crap, crap, I paralyzed him. I knew I shouldn't have gone so low, I—"

House cut him off. "How much did you give him?"

"Um," he swallowed like a kid in detention, "50ccs. Enough for two hours."

"Then you didn't do this to him," said House, stone-faced.

Tom looked across the faces of his doctors, none of them really offering any help. "Wait, what does that mean."

His eyes connected with Dr. House's. House squinted at him like the puzzle he was. "It means," he said, "that you're paralyzed and we have no idea why."


	13. See Dick Reason

**Disclaimer:** You know what? I am David Shore, and I do own House. Yes, that's right. By day I'm a genius writer and producer, but by night I like to dumb myself down to the writing abilities of a 10 year-old for kicks. And I like it that way.

**Author's Note:** I know a lot of people have stopped reading this because they got bored or whatever, which makes the people who continue to read and leave me their awesome reviews even more special to me. And for that, I sincerely thank you. I'm pretty close to the end now, only a few more chapters, so hang in there, lol.

**See Dick Reason…**

House was seated at his computer when they walked in. Foreman behind Kutner, Kutner behind Taub, Taub behind Thirteen. They were like penguins on parade.

Taub was the first to speak. "CAT scan was inconclusive."

"Okay," said House, his inattentiveness obvious. His eyes were latched on to the computer screen, his hand on absently placed on his right thigh, and his cane teetering dangerously close to the edge of the desk.

Thirteen glanced over his shoulder at the computer, expecting to see "Two Girls, One Cup" plaguing the hard drive with its vomit-inducing vulgarities, but instead found a single pop-up window, to which House was devoting his attention.

He looked up momentarily at Thirteen, then back at the screen as he said, "How am I supposed to win an Xbox 360 with you hanging over my shoulder like a dead goose?"

Taub spoke again, his lack of patience evident on his tone. "Did you hear what I said?"

House pushed away from his desk, allowing the wheels on his chair to roll a few feet before turning and facing Taub. "Aww, you killed Frogger."

Taub sighed, "The CAT scan was inconclusive."

"Oops, looks like you have to get another one."

Foreman edged close to both of them. "_House," _he said in a tone not unlike Lisa Cuddy's.

"_Foreman,"_ mocked House, throwing it right back.

It was now Kutner's turn to step closer. Now they were huddled around House's desk in an awkward semi-circle. "We did it with contrast. Odds are we won't get a different result."

House shot an icy glare at the floor, but nobody could tell if he was thinking…or just angry. It happened a lot.

He looked up again. "Unless you have a better idea—"

"We need to do a brain biopsy." The voice was Taub's. It was loud and sure and brimming with finality.

"No."

Taub didn't waver. "It might be our only shot at figuring out what's wrong with the guy. All of his symptoms are neurological, but our tests are inconclusive. We know it's an infection of some sort, we just don't know what kind. Antibiotics aren't working, we've been wrong every step of the way, and this is our last chance, House!"

"I said 'no,' which I believe translates to 'you're not taking out a piece of my patient's brain.'"

"Last time I checked, you weren't scared of doing what's necessary to get an answer," said Thirteen coolly.

House scratched the back of his ear as if the last comment hadn't affected him. 'Last time I checked," he said, "doing a dangerous and invasive test before covering our bases wasn't necessary."

Foreman grunted, "Oh so that little stunt you pulled today, that wasn't dangerous?"

"It was _necessary," _said House, allowing the word to ooze out of his mouth like a noxious fume.

"So is this, House," whispered Thirteen, "you just care too much about this guy to see it."

House laughed humorlessly as he looked around the room. "So, this is what you all think?" he asked, expecting at least Kutner to back him up out of fear or admiration. But their faces were stoic—a silent 'yes.' "You think I care? I mean, it's an easy mistake, me giving hugs to complete strangers and all…"

Taub looked him squarely in the face and told him, "You care enough to let it cloud your judgment."

House began unconsciously rubbing his thigh. "My judgment? Just because I gave the guy an epi—"

"You could have killed him, House!" Foreman's eyes were locked on House's haggard face, unyielding.

"He was in pain!" House yelled, standing up and consequently knocking over his cane. Next to the dingy carpet, it didn't look quite as bitchin.'

House was growing pale again. "And now he's not. Know why? Because he's paralyzed! And if we don't figure out what's causing it, he really _is_ going to die. If that happens, then by all means, yell at me about sticking a syringe in his back, but until then, my patient, my call. You're not doing a biopsy."

Foreman left the room as soon as the tension in the room had died down a enough to move.

"Where are you going?" said House, his voice hoarse and almost breaking.

Foreman didn't turn around. "I'm not the one who's gonna have to deal with the consequences if you're wrong."

He was just a speck down the hallway. Trying to stop him would be about as pointless as trying to stop a raindrop as it rolls down a window.

House sank to his knees in an attempt to reach his cane, but when he got there, it was already being offered to him by a pair of hands.

"Thank you," he said, not really knowing who had picked it up for him.

He was surprised to find Taub saying, "You're Welcome."

Taub looked him up and down, as if he weren't already aware that House looked like shit. "You should really go home and rest, " he said, "You need it."

House gave him a dismissive nod as he caught the eye of Thirteen.

"House," she said, "You passed out. Don't make it…" she paused, not able to find words that could satisfy her need to speak and House's need to listen. "Never mind," she said.

The three of the walked out wordlessly.

House was now unfortunately left without distraction in facing a new surge of pain as it tightened its grip on him. He couldn't think about the young man down the hall who was paralyzed in one leg, and would soon be paralyzed in two legs. All he could think was _I have to do better than this._


	14. See Spot Run

**Disclaimer: **I'd like a #1 with fries and a medium orange soda please. Could I also get ketchup? Thanks.

**Author's Note: **Ah yes, we draw nearer and nearer to the end. I'd like to give a shout-out to the readers who continue to give me such great reviews even after they read this crap chapter after chapter—you guys are really my food for thought, and I thank you sincerely. I also want to thank my friend Amy. I may have stopped at chapter 10 without her, lol. If you could though, please tell me if you think either Cuddy or Wilson is OOC. I think I got so used to writing House that my characterizations of these too might be a little off.

**See Spot Run…**

It was a beautiful thing to watch Wilson run.

He ran on his toes like a true track star, his stride long and precise, almost like a gazelle. His feet rebounded off the pavement with the agility of a much younger man, making him appear almost weightless as he zoomed around the track.

It was too easy to forget that Princeton Plainsboro was just yards away, and that this was just an unkempt football field where doctors pretended to disregard the chaos that was happening inside the hospital's walls.

Wilson's sneakers squeaked from underuse, still as stiff and shiny as the day he bought them. He increased his speed going into the turn, pushing hard to catch up with the woman in front of him.

She ran on her heels. It was a bad habit, but one hard to overcome after thirtysomething years. While still rather spry, she lacked the practice evident in Wilson's stride. He was a runner by nature. She was a runner by the desire to lose a few pounds and keep them off.

She was in earshot by the time Wilson came out of the turn.

"Hey, Lisa!" he called.

Cuddy slowed down to wait for him and matched his pace once he caught up. He'd called her by her first name, a hard feat to pull off while not sounding like a sleazebag sometimes. Wilson's voice, however, had that genuine quality about it that allowed him to say almost anything and make it sound "charming."

"Hey," she said.

"Hey," said Wilson, not wanting to start a conversation about the weather, but without a clue what to talk about.

Cuddy let him off the hook. "Freezing evening jogs on the track, I feel like I'm still in med school, " she said with a chuckle.

Wilson grinned. Yeah, without the ornery, egotistical professors."

"Just ornery, egotistical doctors to deal with now," she said, almost sullenly.

Wilson looked around, thinking back. "He used to love this, you know."

"Running?"

"He says," Wilson squinted as if trying to recall the exact phrasing, "it's the closest you can get to people without having to interact with them."

Cuddy began to watch a few runners in the distance. He was right. They weren't talking to anyone. They weren't even making eye contact with one another.

Then, coming back to the conversation, she rolled her eyes. "Unbelievable, " she said.

"What?"

She shook her head smiling. "When was the last time you and I had a conversation that _wasn't _about House?"

"I…" started Wilson, frowning, "I'm not sure such a thing has ever occurred."

They both laughed, but it was kind of sad, really.

Neither one of them talked for about a minute. They increased their speed, panting through their noses in an attempt to conceal to the other that they were in worse shape than they'd like to be. Cuddy was the first one to talk.

"I'm worried about him, Wilson."

Wilson sniffed, "You're always worried about him."

She continued, paying no mind to Wilson's dig. "This case is really messing with him."

Wilson sighed. "This case could be good for him."

"Since when do you know what's 'good for him' anymore?"

"Since I met his patient. The guy's just like House…if House were honest…and friendly."

Cuddy raised a disbelieving eyebrow. "So he's…not like House at all then," she said.

He carried on, "Well, House has obviously taken an interest in him. Maybe some of it will…rub off or something."

"Yes, I expect that will happen about the same time Hell receives a light snow."

Wilson slowed down a little to face Cuddy, wheezing in an effort to jog and talk at the same time.

"Cuddy, his patient—Tom, I was in the scan room with him earlier, and I asked him some questions."

"Like what?"

Wilson furrowed his brow, trying to explain his reasoning. "He's a chronic pain patient like House. I…asked him questions I knew House wouldn't answer."

"Like what goes through the mind of a drug addict?" she said with a smug grin.

"I asked him what it feels like."

Cuddy suddenly felt very ashamed of what she's just said. Of course, only Wilson would ask a patient something like that. There's a difference in the types of questions you ask when you actually care what a person has to say. It's the difference between "how are you?" and "who has most influenced your life?" Wilson always cared.

But along with the shame, she also felt a great amount of intrigue towards the answer. Finally, she felt as if she were about to get the truth.

"What'd he say?"

"Well, first he asked me if I wanted to hear the real version, or what he told his family and friends."

"There's a difference?"

Wilson seemed to struggle with finding a direct quote. "He said, he couldn't have his family knowing how bad it was…that it was hard enough for one person to face it, let alone everyone around him."

Wilson stopped running. "I asked for the real version."

Suddenly, Cuddy didn't want to hear the answer.

But Wilson still said it. "He said it feels 'like having electrified rail spikes heated to a thousand degrees, and then hammered into you leg'." He swallowed hard, looking down. "And that it's never stops."

She thought she might cry. Not out of pity, but out of guilt for every undercutting remark she'd made about House's pain. True, Tom and House were not the same person. They were far from it, but she had a feeling that even half of what Wilson had just described would be enough agony for a lifetime.

She held it together though, for House's sake.

"God…Wilson—"

"Cuddy!"

They both turned to face the speaker, who was jogging toward them few yards away. It was Foreman, looking slightly out of breath and obviously there for reasons other than jogging.

"Yes?" said Cuddy, trying to hide the apprehension in her voice.

"You know how you told me to find you if House did something stupid?"

"Yes, " she said, now making no attempt to hide it.

Foreman sighed. "You better come with me."


	15. See Jane Curse

**Disclaimer: **What?

**Author's Note: **This is again a chapter I actually enjoyed writing. I hope you like it too.

**See Jane Curse…**

"You have a master key, right?" Foreman's voice was hurried, as were his steps as he led Cuddy to the elevator in the lobby.

Wilson had stayed on the track. Once it'd been established that House was physically okay, and that he was not lying in a pool of blood or a victim of spontaneous human combustion, Wilson really felt no need to go. And while his curiosity for what House had done was strong, his adoration of peace and quiet was a little bit stronger. And a lot less…complicated.

Cuddy was getting annoyed at the shroud of mystery Foreman had blanketed this all in. Surely, whatever House did couldn't be that bad?

Stupid assumption. Of course it could be that bad, and of course, it probably was.

"Why are we going to the basement?" she asked.

Foreman sighed, looking upwards, "Because that's where the morgue is."

"Dr. Foreman, what the Hell is going on?"

Foreman scratched his temple as if preparing for a long story. "Our patient," he began, "presented with nausea and disorientation, which developed into seizures, fever, and right leg paralysis. It's obviously a neurological problem, and probably an infection." His voice had that singsong quality to it, a type of subliminal 'I told you so.' The dean of medicine found it particularity annoying.

Foreman continued, his contempt of the situation quite apparent. "The MRI was negative and the CT scan was inconclusive. We put the guy on broad-spectrum antibiotics, but he's still getting worse. Therefore, the only logical thing left is to do a brain biopsy."

Cuddy still didn't see what this all had to do with the morgue…unless the patient was dead. But then, that wouldn't necessarily be anything that'd make House do something crazy. "What'd the biopsy reveal?"

"Nothing. We haven't done it."

"Why not?"

"House," he said with raised eyebrows, "won't let us."

Cuddy shot him a look of disbelief from across the small lift.

He elaborated. "Said it'd be 'too dangerous.' He wants us to solve the case by sitting on our hands while he guesses. Meanwhile, there's a dying cripple in the other room."

Cuddy had never heard Foreman say "cripple" before. For some reason, it sounded wrong. Almost the equivalent of House saying "I love you."

She ignored it. "Well now you have my permission. Do the biopsy."

"Can't," he said bitterly. "He faked a page from you to every neurosurgeon in the hospital, telling them to help with an emergency in the morgue."

As they stepped off the elevator, Cuddy heard strange banging sounds coming from inside the morgue's doors, which were mysteriously closed.

Foreman stopped in front of the door. "Then he locked them all in, "he said.

It's a truly scary thing, when a person can get creative about ways to torment others.

"Oh God," said Cuddy, not nearly as amused as she'd be twenty years later when reciting this story to her nephew.

She got the key out from her back pocket and unlocked the door, simultaneously unleashing a raging tide of curse words and threats from the masses of people inside.

After approximately fifteen minutes of apologizing to each and every enraged brain surgeon, the mess seemed to be resolved. Of course, now none of them even wanted to touch the patient of the ass who put them in there, let alone operate on the guy.

Cuddy started up the stairs, not bothering with the elevator and the grumpy old men in it. Foreman was fast at her heels, trying to keep a little distance as Cuddy leered into the space in front of her like a hungry predator on the prowl.

"I'll kill him!" she fumed, "I'll wring the son-of-a-bitch's neck!" Her next few sentences were muffled threats and some garbled curse words as she repeated, "_Every damn neurosurgeon!"_

Foreman wanted to calm her down a little, at least so that her pulse dropped below 200, but couldn't bring himself to do it…out of fear.

She swung open House's door as if helped along by gale force winds.

"HOUSE!"

House sat up looking surprised, as if he had no clue what she was angry about.

"Can I help you?" he asked, mock courtesy flooding the room.

Cuddy had to speak each word separately, for fear of erupting her volcano of fury on her employee.

"What. Were. You. Thinking?!"

House pondered for a moment, before answering. "I was thinking…that seeing Mamma Mia! seemed like a perfectly acceptable way to spend an afternoon. And I was right, Wilson and I were dancing in the aisles."

Outside in the hallway, a woman's scream could be heard all the way down at the nurse's station.

A minute later, Wilson stepped out of the elevator dressed in running shoes, shorts and a t-shirt.

Cuddy was already in the room by the time Wilson got there. He stopped just out of House's field of vision to watch the conversation.

Half of the walls in House's office were made of glass, but that didn't make it any easier to hear what they were saying. Both were agitated, obviously. Cuddy moreso than House. He guessed that Cuddy was yelling at her prized diagnostician about something, and he was yelling back. Just…not as loudly. Wilson was probably right, considering this was the path most of their conversations took.

By the look of it, Cuddy hadn't mentioned her earlier conversation with Wilson on the track. And she probably wouldn't, as such tasks were typically reserved for best friends.

Wilson was considering whether or not to go in. On one hand, House might not react kindly to such an intrusion in the middle of an argument, but on the other hand, this was something Wilson really needed to talk with him about.

So he opened the door. He slowly slunk in the office like a five year old playing hide and seek, perhaps in an effort to not draw attention to himself. The idea in itself was rather ludicrous. House shot him a glance in acknowledgement of his entrance, but kept his attention on Cuddy.

Cuddy either didn't notice or didn't care—probably the latter, as extra bodies in a rather small office were pretty hard to miss.

She drove on, reciting her argument like a well-rehearsed speech spoken to a mirror. "Your patient is getting sicker. You tossing a damn tennis ball at the wall is not making you smarter. Do the biopsy, House. And after that, write a personalized letter of apology to every person you locked in that room." The second part was rather pointless, as House would never do it, but it did give Cuddy a small sense of control (that she desperately needed right about now).

House, who was holding on to that damn tennis ball as a way to anchor his pain rather than get an idea, spoke softly to her. It was the kind of calmness that followed resignation, and who knows, maybe he _had_ given up. But his words canceled out his defeated tone. "A brain biopsy is extreme, and this case is not at a point where we can compromise this guy's future just because his idiot doctors can't figure out what's wrong with him. I need more time."

"But that's the point, House. You do this biopsy, and you _will_ know what's wrong with him. Yes, you will be taking a risk, but it's a risk you'd take with every single other patient who comes in here if it meant saving their life."

"His brain is all he's got!"

"He's not you, House!"

House opened his mouth to speak, but found the words would not come, that some bizarre mix up of brain waves behind his blue eyes had stripped him of his trademark articulation.

So Wilson spoke for him.

"You like him."

The words caught House with his hands in the cookie jar. Any other time, any other place, any other patient, and words denying this accusation would have burned up the air with incendiary wit, but this time there was no use in lying.

The funny thing was that, up until that moment when Wilson spoke those words aloud, solidifying them in the eyes of Cuddy and himself, House could not put his finger on why exactly he respected Tom Mix as a person.

But right then in his office, it suddenly hit him, like a speeding truck with no brakes.

"He…never lies." House sighed, then he chuckled slightly, throwing as much weight off what he was about to say as humanly possible. "He knows what's real. He doesn't flee from stereotypes; he embraces them and uses them. He doesn't just stumble through the day. He's…" There was no turning back now, and so House said a word that he'd been afraid of for a long time:

"Happy."

Wilson and Cuddy exchanged looks, but said nothing. To witness House speak this freely was about as rare as a two-headed anteater, in that, up until recently, nobody was sure either thing existed.

"And I respect that." House had reached the end of his rational thought process. It was now time to start arguing once more. "And I'm not gonna go playing Capture the Flag in his brain, not when there's still time to find out what's killing him!"

"House," Cuddy began softly, "there is no time. Soon he's gonna be in pain. You know what that's like more than anyone."

She did it. She played the cripple card, because that's what it took to get House to listen.

"Do the biopsy, or you're off the case, House."

"Get out of my office."

"You broke your own rule House; you're not being objective!" Cuddy was pleading now.

Wilson stood in the corner and looked at his feet. He had no more leverage to use. He might as well have been invisible.

"GET OUT OF MY OFFICE!" he slammed his fist down and stood up, pale-faced and wincing in pain.

Cuddy stuttered the beginnings of something before turning around, hiding the look of pity on her face. Wilson sighed, finally speaking. "Everybody lies," he said.

It hadn't been a dig at House's patient, nor House. It was just a statement—an expression really, that had spread throughout the hospital as a peephole into the mind of Greg House. It wasn't preachy either, the way Wilson said it. Truly, at the core of the sentence, it was just words.

But to House it was none of these things. It was a clue.

The lower part of his eyelids scrunched up in a purposeful tick and he squinted at something unseen on the floor. His brow furrowed as he thought, his eyes zipping back and forth as if read the pages of his own mind.

And then he looked up. His faced relaxed.

"I borrowed this. We're even," he said, placing a pager in Cuddy's hand.

Without another word from anybody, he grabbed his cane and stumbled out of the room. Neither Cuddy nor Wilson followed him.

They knew that look.

He'd solved it.

House walked into the lab with more speed than he'd had all day. His team eyed him curiously. He rarely stayed until 5pm. It was now 7:30.

"Who did Tom's surgery? After he broke his leg."

"Uh, " said Thirteen, eyes in Tom Mix's file, "Dr. Kevin Brenton."

House's eyes narrowed calculatingly. He began to walk closer, playing out the scenario in his head before telling his team what to do. "Go MRI his head."

Kutner sat up, puzzled. "We already did. It was negative."

"Do it anyway."

The three of them were obviously confused, but not one said anything as they stood up and began walking towards Tom's room.

House flicked a pill in his mouth, sat down at the lab table, and waited.

By 8pm they were back, films in hand. He took the scan from Taub's hands and put it up in the light.

"That's…impossible," said Kutner. "We just scanned him this morning."

They all stared at the scan for a least a minute. House's arm was sore from holding it up, but he kept it placed in front of the light. Unmoving, unspeaking.

Taub spoke first, switching the focus in his eyes as he tried to count the many lesions that now dotted the MRI like freckles. "How long?"

"Three months," said Thirteen, "maybe four."

House lowered the scan and stared ahead.

"Shit," he said.


	16. See Dick Cry

**Author's Note:** This is the second to last chapter. Hope you like it.

**See Dick Cry…**

House was leaning against the balcony wall between his office and Wilson's, wishing that the moon were full so that Wilson would know he was out there. It was a dark night, chilly, and he doubted Wilson would look up from his work, let alone notice the shadowy figure outside who was drowning in self-pity.

House wasn't really drowning in self-pity, but that's what Wilson would think. And truth be told, House didn't really care whether Wilson looked up or not; he didn't care if the man walked out to join him on the balcony. He didn't care if his best friend talked to him.

But it would be nice.

House didn't regret saying the things he said earlier, and even now he didn't _need_ Wilson's company. He just needed a way to wrap his mind around what had just happened, and Wilson seemed just as good a person as ever to help him do that. But again, House didn't really care.

It seems unusual that the people who are the most astute when it comes to the lives of others frequently lack that same insight into themselves. They need somebody else to hold up the mirror sometimes.

Wilson slid open the glass door of his office and walked out on the balcony, holding House's mirror—metaphorically, of course. It'd be silly to walk around with a mirror in one's hand.

Wilson sauntered over to where House was, matching his pose against the wall, putting his hands on top of the ledge, leaning forward, and putting all of his weight on his left leg as his right apathetically kissed at the ground behind him.

Neither one of them spoke for a long time. House wasn't thinking about Wilson being there, and Wilson wasn't thinking about House being there. They were just thinking, comfortable enough with each other that the silence was natural.

Wilson thought about his day, the fact that he'd skipped dinner and now would have to order pizza at home or pick up Chinese. House was thinking about the time that had passed since Tom was admitted. It was only 8:23, less than ten hours from meeting him the clinic.

But those ten hours seemed so long ago, as if there was an entire ocean of time from what he knew then and what he knew now.

Wilson sighed, revealing that he was about to speak.

"What's up?" he said, not expecting an answer like _"not much, you?"_

"Tom's dying," replied House, not looking at him.

Wilson nodded. "You gonna tell him?"

House didn't answer.

"You want me to tell him? I mean, if you're not feeling—"

"No," said House, "I'll tell him. He should hear it from me."

Wilson shrugged, "You're the one who says it won't matter who he hears it from. It won't make him die slower if that person is you."

House paused a long time, trying to properly articulate at least one of the thoughts currently zipping about his brain. "He should know that his life mattered…even if it didn't. He should know that his pain—"

"He doesn't need to know that, House. You do."

House tried to swallow, but found that a lump in his throat the size of Texas was preventing him from doing so. He couldn't remember what it felt like, to be on the verge of tears. His throat was sore from this lump, causing him to start his sentence several times before feeling confident enough to finish it.

"You're right. I need to tell him because it matters to me."

House turned to walk away and couldn't. Instead, he stayed there, staring at a moon that wasn't there, thankful for its absence as the corners of his eyes began to burn and water.

"I thought that if I…" he said, blinking repeatedly as he looked up, determined not to let a tear fall, his voice hoarse and watery, "…I don't know what I thought."

And he turned, making his way back to his office. He was already at the handle when Wilson spoke.

"House."

House looked back shamefully, his eyes red and glassy.

Wilson said, "Just because you care…it doesn't make you weak."

"But it does make me stupid." He slid the door open and hobbled inside, sliding it behind him quickly as if some unseen force were helping him do so.

His office was dark with the exception of the occasional headlight that would blink whenever a car passed the building. His jacket was where he left it on the ottoman, the wrinkles in the leather chair still present from his earlier snooze. The whiteboard, too, was how he left it, Robert Frost's words flashing at him with every passing vehicle.

_The woods are lovely, dark and deep,_

_But I have promises to keep,_

_And miles to go before I sleep,_

_And miles to go before I sleep._

He grabbed his jacket and began waking towards room 109.

He opened the door slowly, part of him hoping that Tom would again be asleep, most of him hoping that Tom already knew, that he could just turn around and go home.

"That's a bitchin' cane," said Tom, who was not asleep.

"I know," said House with an insincere look of smugness. He placed said bitchin' cane on the foot of Tom's bed. He brought the chair over to the side of the bed, but didn't sit down.

"Did you ever read 'Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening' by Robert Frost?'

Tom thought for a second. "In high school, why?"

"Do you remember what it's about?"

Tom smiled "…isn't it about stopping by woods on a snowy evening?"

House nodded absently. "That's what a lot of people think, but that's not it."

He sat down, leaning closer to Tom. "It's about contemplating suicide, then deciding not to go through with it. "

He recited it so that Tom could take in the poem with this new mindset. Tom was more concerned with how Dr. House had come to know it by heart.

_Whose woods these are I think I know._

_His house is in the village though;_

_He will not see me stopping here_

_To watch his woods fill up with snow._

_My little horse must think it queer_

_To stop without a farmhouse near_

_Between the woods and frozen lake_

_The darkest evening of the year._

_He gives his harness bells a shake_

_To ask if there is some mistake._

_The only other sound's the sweep_

_Of easy wind and downy flake._

_The woods are lovely, dark and deep._

_But I have promises to keep,_

_And miles to go before I sleep,_

_And miles to go before I sleep._

Despite his awe, Tom chuckled a little after House had finished. "I never took you for a poetry guy," he said.

"I'm not," replied House, stoically.

"Then why are you—"

"You're dying."

House always said that the defining moment in one's life is when they're told they're dying. It doesn't happen to a lot of people, but the ones who get to hear those two words are the lucky ones, he thought. Because only after those words are spoken can you truly prove your worth. Whether you nod, cry, or hug your doctor, that's the truest to yourself you'll ever be. Huggers will always hug, criers will always cry, and nodders will always nod.

Tom Mix was a nodder.

He blinked a lot, obviously trying not to be a crier. "Because—because of the paralysis?"

"Because you lied," whispered House, eyes on the floor. "You're not happy."

"Yes…I am."

House let his eyes meet Tom's. He had brown eyes. There was something sharper about them, though. They weren't like Wilson's dumb dog eyes; they were like hawk eyes without the meanness of their reputation.

"You tried to kill yourself. Four years ago, right after the pain started."

"I—"

But House didn't let him talk. "Your attending's name was Kevin Brenton. He used to do research for Multiple Sclerosis, helped develop a couple experimental drugs. My guess is, he left a bottle of pills on the end table one day. You took the whole bottle, thinking they were Vicodin. You thought that the Vicodin just didn't work, that nothing would work…I mean," House's eyes narrowed, "you took an entire bottle of a narcotic, and nothing happened. Thing is, that wasn't Vicodin. That was an MS drug called Tysabri, which didn't affect you then…but has since been breaking down the nerve fibers at the top of your spinal cord."

Tom swallowed, asking, "But, people, people can have surgery on their spinal cord. They don't die from it."

House too, swallowed, and elaborated. "Most people, have a virus that lives in their spinal cord. It's called the JC virus, and when the myelin sheath that covers your nerve cells breaks down, as it did in your case, the virus enters the brain, and kills you. It's called Progressive Multifocal Leukoencephalopathy, takes a long time to develop, short time to kill."

House had always taken Tom as a crier. And there was nothing wrong with being a crier. True, crying was selfish and a little pointless (as House tended to remind himself every time he got close), but as far as reactions to your impending doom go, it was certainly understandable.

But Tom continued to nod. "How…long do I have?" he said.

"About three months."

"I'm not—"

House shook his head. "I don't want to hear why you did it."

Tom smiled. "I wasn't going to tell you. I was just going to say that I'm not scared."

"Why would you be? Think of all the pity sex you'll get now, even more than before!"

He chuckled for a minute, then frowned thoughtfully. "I'd forgotten what it's like," said Tom, "to not be in pain. Three months of this…I'm okay with that. Does that make me a coward?"

House thought he'd take a swing at being honest. "No," he said. He thought for a while about all the meaningful things he could say right now, and yet, none of them really seemed to matter, none of them seemed to actually have meaning.

Tom cleared his throat a little. "You never answered my question."

"I did, but you were seizing. Too bad, I guess."

Tom rolled his eye. "What was the answer?"

House wanted to lie. He wanted to lie more than he wanted good sex. But at the moment, neither option seemed a possibility.

"Yeah," he said, "I remember how to ride a bike."

Tom looked at the floor, trying to imagine. "What's it like?"

House squinted. "It's like……..you ever driven a motorcycle?"

Tom laughed, "No,"

"Get one," said House, "…soon."

Tom eyed him skeptically. "Where do you put your cane?"

"You don't wanna know."

House lavishly flipped a pill through the air and caught it on his tongue. He then stood up, took two steps towards the door, and one step back. "Of course, with a big honking thing like that," he said, indicating Tom's forearm crutch, "you'd never get anywhere. Here, better take mine."

House presented Tom his flame cane with the formality of an American flag. He heavily limped over to the wall and grabbed Tom's crutch, adjusting it to his height.

"Wow, thanks, I mean—"

"I figure maybe you'll look less dorky. I mean me, I can make anything look cool, but it's a rare gift, Quicks."

"Bye, House," said Tom.

But House was already out the door.


	17. Epilogue: See Dick Smile

**See Dick Smile…**

The biggest difference between a car and a motorcycle is that in a car, you can hear your own thoughts. That's what scared House the most that night as he puttered along the highway in his 11 year-old Volvo.

The car's heater had stopped working about three years ago, and he couldn't remember a time when 'turning on the A/C' meant something other than rolling down your window and sticking your head out like a dog.

And still, getting cut by the exposed springs in the driver's seat was better than picking up a particularly mangled appendage and tossing it over the other side of a Honda Repsol. At least when that appendage was responding to every slight shift of the feet by shooting what felt like angry injections of rattlesnake venom up our spine.

But at least on the motorcycle…he didn't have to think.

He spent most of his ten-minute trip home pretending to think about trivial things, things like Hendrix posters and Google and the unopened electric bill on his kitchen table, things that wouldn't give him grief as he lay awake in bed that night.

But as he passed the forgotten tire tread left by trucks passing through, the skid marks from where people had fallen asleep at the wheel and swerved their way back on the road just in time, and the other skid marks, where it looked as though they hadn't been so lucky, he couldn't deny that he was thinking about how easy it would be.

Nobody would ever assume. They'd just think what he thought, staring at those skid marks: House fell asleep at the wheel. Tom Mox said that he wasn't scared, that he'd had enough of the pain and the limitations. He suspected maybe Tom Mix had had enough of people as well.

House coaxed the little car over the edge of the white line, his heart beating faster with something like anticipation…

But House didn't do it. He tilted the wheel and the car went back towards the center of the lane again.

Because, Gregory House was not like Tom Mix. Gregory House was scared. And while Gregory House had also had enough of the pain and the limitations, and most of all the people, Gregory House had not had enough of life. At least, not yet.

He opened his front door and his bottle of Vicodin at the same time. It was multitasking at its finest. He put the bottle on the table by the door after swallowing a pill, flinging his keys somewhere where he'd psychically find them the next morning. He was tired, but it was only 9:30. He tossed his jacket at a hanger on his closet and missed, not bothering to pick it up. He flopped down on the couch and pressed the Power button on the remote, his left shoe scuttling across the floor after he kicked it off.

He leaned over his right leg and began to carefully untie his shoelace. He made the laces as loose as possible, and then began to remove the shoe with the care often exerted by New York's bomb squad.

He had to scroll down his Tivo a ways before finding it. Under the title were the names Kevin Spacey and Benicio Del Toro, and four stars side by side.

He pressed play, but paused it before the MGM lion roared.

The phone was on the end table next to the couch. He picked it up and dialed a number with robotic speed. Then, he pressed "Talk." He wasn't quite sure why.

"Hey, Wilson, I'm watching 'The Usual Suspects' right now, and I was wondering if…" he chuckled, knowing that Wilson probably wouldn't come over unless he used the exact phrase he'd been trying to avoid. "I…need your company. I'll order pizza. Bring your wallet. I'll see you in ten minutes."

Wilson hadn't said "yes," but he knew that in ten minutes time, there'd be a knock on the door. He knew that in ten minutes time, everything would be just the way it always was, and that was okay with him.

He put his feet up on the coffee table and slouched back in the cushions a little.

For the first time in a long time, he smiled.

House's leg didn't hurt so much anymore.


End file.
